


The Seasons Change and Leave You Behind

by tealmoon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Angst, Bad Ending, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fellcest - Freeform, Incest, Misgendering, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Harm, Vomiting, soul noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-10-30 13:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17829206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealmoon/pseuds/tealmoon
Summary: It was a scenario taken from the pages of a fairytale: a decadent ball, a mysterious and intriguing stranger, a kiss.A hapless innocent walking into a beautiful trap.





	1. Spring

The very concept of a secret society ball was so exciting Papyrus could barely stand it, but it was turning out to be so secret he wasn’t sure how to access it in the first place.

The high society papers, of course, would not mention such a thing, though he scoured the columns regardless. The cheap bohemian publications were more likely to hold clues in their smeared ink, but he had yet to find anything. He had attended all of one poetry reading looking for clues, before the terrible wine and abominable wordplay drove him out long before anyone could question why a monster of his status could possibly be attending. He didn’t know anyone who had attended one of these mysterious balls, so who was he to ask?

His lucky break came from Bratty and Catty. He had known them since they had all been children starting to be paraded out into society events—when he had found them in the gardens, avoiding a steady stream of matrons cooing over how fast they were growing, they had roped him into their game of tag. From then on they were friends, the easiest friendship he had ever made. His father had even entertained the thought of him marrying one of them, as both were heiresses with solid prospects. It had taken an awkward, sideways conversation to convince him that, in fact, the two ladies were likely to marry each other or not at all.

When he had invited them over for tea, they were all but bursting to tell him what they had heard about the secret balls, before he could introduce the subject himself.

“We’re probably gonna end up there ourselves,” Bratty said, simpering behind her fan. “Sounds like a riot, doesn’t it?” Hopefully he’d see them there—a pair of familiar faces would bolster him against the unknown! Er, not that he needed much bolstering, but it would be nice nonetheless.

“I heard,” Catty said, with a tone that demanded his belief, “that on the night of the party, you have to walk counterclockwise around that gazebo in the southern park, you know the one?” He did know, nodding; it had a lake that was pleasant to walk around, and immense willow trees. “ _And_ you have to be wearing a flower in your buttonhole, or on your hat. Freesia, this season. I guess someone waits there to see who does it? Too bad for them, stuck on gazebo-duty instead of actually getting to go.” Both ladies snickered to each other, and he had to agree.

“It does sound a bit absurd, though of course my judgment falls on the creator of that ritual, and not either of you.”

“Sounds dumb as all hell, right?! But that’s how I’ve heard it,” Catty said. “It’s not like you have to go run around the gazebo every night until someone takes pity on you, at least. That’d be pathetic? Stars, everyone would gossip. But they only have their balls when it’s the solstice or the equinox. Uh, which one is it this month? I’m not a _farmer_ , I’ve never cared about it before.”

“It’s the spring equinox, I think,” Bratty cut in. “Only two days from now. You’d hope the rumor mill would be a little more considerate and let us know ahead of time. We barely have any time to get new dresses, ugh.”

He hadn’t thought it would be so soon! His wardrobe was well equipped, but did he have anything that really screamed ‘secret society?’ Most of his spring outfits didn’t have the proper air of mystery that such an event demanded. And he couldn’t turn down an opportunity to adorn himself.

“Well, ladies, there’s no time to waste,” Papyrus said, pushing to his feet. “I believe the boutiques and the florist’s shop are calling our names.” Both of them drained their teacups in identical gestures and hurried to their feet. He held out an arm for each of them to take and led them out of the parlor.

Their chattering was enough to draw Papyrus’s father out of his study. “Now, what’s this all about?” He bowed to Bratty and Catty as if they were proper society ladies and not menaces who ate all of his preserves and were the reason their finest china wasn’t used anymore, after Catty had sent too many teacups shattering to the ground. It sent them into fits of giggles.

“We’re going into town for some shopping, Papa. There’s going to be a ball.” It was lucky that Gaster, even at his most socially proper, never had much time for any but the most mandatory events. He didn’t know the social calendar well enough to realize there wasn’t anything official planned for the coming weeks. Papyrus wasn’t sure he’d approve of secret society dances.

“Sounds lovely,” Gaster said, and even though it wouldn’t have been lovely for _him_ , who froze up whenever the conversation strayed to anything but his research and inventions, he always supported all that Papyrus did. “Do have a good time. Perhaps you’ll meet someone new there? A friend, or a suitor, perhaps.” He drew Papyrus in for a peck on the forehead.

Flustered at the thought, he squeezed his father’s hand briefly before following Bratty and Catty out the door. They noticed his blush, of course, and they were halfway to the shopping district before the teasing abated.

-

He had an immaculate freesia bloom, his best evening wear including a new waistcoat, and his bones gleamed in the moonlight, so why did he feel so self-conscious? At this time of night, the park was empty. He had hoped to perform the necessary ritual alongside Bratty and Catty, but the two of them were likely to show up fashionably late.

He glanced around for the supposed watcher but saw no one. At this time of night, he imagined they would have to be close to see the prospective ball guests, but if so, they were stealthy enough to avoid his attentions. He reached the gazebo perhaps faster than a gentleman should walk, but he couldn’t help the excited jitters. Straightening his lapels, he began to circle the structure, counterclockwise as instructed.

He’d never roamed like this at night, not when there were warm parlors and tea rooms he could visit instead. The park had an ethereal, unfamiliar quality in the moonlight, almost looking like a place he had never visited before, a new wildness to the willow trees.

On the fifth rotation, he was starting to feel absurd. Was there someone in the bushes, ready to jump out and laugh at him? Not his friends—even if he believed they would humiliate him so, their excitement for this ball had been equal to his own—but whoever had instigated the rumors. It was hardly a _scandal_ , but to be caught in such a trick...

“Sir?” He whirled around, grabbing one of the gazebo’s columns for balance. How had they slipped behind him so quietly, without the grass whispering under their steps? Was this a tormentor, ready to point and laugh?

The monster before him did no such thing. They dipped into a deep bow, arm crossed over their chest. When they straightened, he nearly jumped again. In the gloom, it took a moment before he could see that the featureless dark of their face was a plain gray mask. “One of our guests, am I correct? I will be escorting you to the event, sir. If you’ll come with me?”

“Yes! Yes, of course.” They led him to a carriage that he had not seen when he entered the park, and he wondered why he hadn’t heard its arrival. It was an elegant make, though he noticed that all of its windows were curtained with thick black silk. On the outside, no less, so a passenger could not move them aside. “The master prefers to keep things very private. I’m sure you understand, sir.” The monster helped him step up into the carriage, the interior as lush as the outside.

So, the location was kept a secret even from the few allowed into the event? How intriguing! The carriage began to roll forward, bearing him along. Papyrus usually didn’t abide by fidgeting, but he let his legs bounce against the gleaming floorboards. By the time they had arrived, he intended to appear cool and composed, regardless of how he excited he felt inside.

It took all he had to step down calmly from the carriage once the door swung open. He had only a moment to glance around him before he was led up the marble steps, but it didn’t look like any of the manors he was familiar with. Just as well—the mystique would be ruined if he guessed the location before the night had begun. The doormen drew back the heavy, engraved doors, heads lowered, and he walked in.

It was more beautiful than he could have dreamed. Huge, glistening crystal chandeliers bathed everything in a golden light. Over the sounds of laughter and muffled talk, he could hear elegant stringed instruments playing an unfamiliar composition, a hint of piano weaving through it. The air was thick with the scent of flowers, the work of the lush blooming plants and bushes that decorated the hall in silver pots.

And it was crowded with beautiful guests all wearing masquerade masks.

He hadn’t realized it would be a masked affair. Yes, his chauffeur had worn one, but he had thought that an extra measure of privacy, nothing more. Already heads were turning towards him, a single unadorned monster in a sea of plumes and glitter and jewels. Some of them covered only above the nose, with or without eye holes, and some extended over the whole face, but he couldn’t see a single person as bare as him.

Was that grounds to been thrown from the event? He glanced around in worry, hoping to find a suitable pillar to step behind so he could have a moment to gather himself, but before he could move to a excessively large plant, with blooms he couldn’t identify, he was approached. By the style of dress and the featureless gray mask, they could only be another servant. “Sir, if you’ll accompany me, I can get a mask for you.”

He assumed there was a castoff box for any unfortunate guests who managed to miss the memo. Perhaps he had missed one at the entrance? But the servant didn’t take him to any such thing. Instead, he was led to an alcove partially obscured by a shimmering tapestry, barely enough room for the two of them to stand in. Before he could think about the strangeness of it, he was blocked in by the servant’s body, barely enough room to move as they brought a hand up to his face. Confusion paralyzed him as they cradled gloved, icy hands around the angles of his skull.

The world went hazy, and then sharpened again. An imperceptible weight settling over his head, the inside lined with something like velvet—a mask they must have pulled from a waistcoat pocket, while he was in a daze. “There you are, sir. Far more appropriate.” He was tugged out, and by now his mind was clearing enough to protest such treatment, dragged around as if he was a fellow servant and not a supposedly distinguished guest, but their grip was like iron. They led him to an enormous mirror. Its frame was decorated with writhing snakes and birds with talons spread.

“Does it suit you, sir, or would you like a different mask?”

There was something strange about the mirror, like the glass had been warped by heat, or age, or some other defect that didn’t belong in such a fine venue. It was hardly some distorted carnival mirror, and he could see himself easily enough, but his image wavered.

It was likely the perfume clinging to the mask, muddling his senses. In moments he already had regained clarity, adjusting to the smell of cinnamon as he surveyed his own reflection. It wasn’t the most elaborate mask of those he had seen, which was a bit of a disappointment: why not have feathers, or glittering mirror panels, or woven flowers, as he had seen in the crowd? But it wasn’t so plain that anyone would take him for a servant. At first glance, the surface, such a dark crimson it was almost black, might have appeared simple, but it was embossed with swirling patterns that gleamed when he tilted his head to the light. Tiny red gems trailed from the edges of the eye holes, and he wondered if they were truly proper jewels, not costume rhinestones. The more he examined it, the more elegant it looked.

Not ostentatious, not over the top, but with it on, he felt like he belonged in this elegant place. It had been a faux pas to wander bare-faced, but it had only been for a few minutes. “Yes, this will do, thank you.”

Pleased with their work, the servant flitted away, only to return with a drinks tray in hand, as he was checking his attire for stray wrinkles. The mask left his mouth bared, so he could partake in the feast set out. Father indulged his cooking experiments, so he was used to buying whatever he liked from the market, regardless of cost, but there were so many things on those trays and tables that he couldn’t recognize at a glance.

He hadn’t come here solely for a free meal, of course, but it would be a pity to deprive himself of any of the novelties this place offered: the food, the music, the unfamiliar steps of the dances performed in the next room. He could only see glimpses through the crowd, but some of the lifts he had seen were impressive, indicative of trained ballerinas and not coddled nobles. (Distantly, he wondered if perhaps someone might ask him to dance. Could he mimic the moves well enough? And he was light enough that he could be lifted in the air...)

The drink was making him sentimental, he decided, and swallowed the rest of the glimmering pink liquid in a single gulp. Let the sentimentality have him! He had lived too many straight-laced years not to have a rare unrestrained night! Perhaps it was an inelegant move, but the man took the glass and offered him another without judgment. Every drink on the tray shined like it was full of stars, and the new glass tasted like a fruit he had never encountered before, something light and tart.

Glass in hand, no longer shamefully maskless, he started to walk the perimeter of the dance floor. There would be time to dive in, but first, he wanted a lay of the land. The balconies he passed were so far empty, but a lascivious part of him wondered if they would be sought out by lovers by the time the night passed into early morning. Could he be one of them? It was difficult to gauge attractiveness in a crowd of the masked, but a romantic fragment of him threatened to run away without him. He intended to marry, of course, but a few impassioned kisses would not be so terrible, as long as he was discreet. Everyone did it.

However... no one approached him. There were glances, enough that it couldn’t just be people who had seen him unadorned. Heads followed him as he approached the musicians. Did he come off as interesting? Dashing? He took a seat nearby, pretending to watch the violinists, each wearing a gauzy black veil over an equally black mask, while taking note of the people appraising him. Would someone ask him to dance? He wished for a dance card, a little souvenir to take home with him, but he imagined that the anonymity of the masks also extended to not leaving names written where anyone could see.

If all were too intimidated by his charisma and handsomeness, well, he’d have to take the initiative. He may have been a newcomer, but what was so strange about asking someone to dance, rather than waiting? And he had reached a point in drinking where it had left him loose-limbed and confident but not clumsy. Best to take advantage of such a state.

But who to approach? Everywhere he looked was a monster more eye-catching than the last, many of them already hand in hand. It was enough to overwhelm, looking from one to another, a parade of color and gleaming jewels and laughing mouths, none of them familiar.

But then...

Papyrus had spent his whole life looking for a monster like himself, so it was impossible to mistake the color of bone, despite the crowd. And, even better, the skeleton was approaching him at an easy gait, nodding and grinning to the people around him but maintaining his trajectory towards Papyrus. “Now what do we have here?” the stranger said, once he had reached Papyrus’s chair.

Surrounded by so many elegant people, the stranger looked a little... shabby. His suit was serviceable but not immaculate, and his shoes were scuffed. But he was not without his own shine: his mask was black velvet, covered in constellations with jeweled stars, and his sharp teeth were oddly gold. Were they painted, or was he wearing caps on them? More likely the former, Papyrus decided; he could see a trail of gold leading up the stranger’s cheekbone, barely visible through the eyehole of his mask.

Finally, someone with good taste had approached him, flaws aside. “Good evening,” Papyrus said, resisting the urge to adjust his mask. “A fine night, isn’t it?”

“And getting better as we speak.” The stranger took a chair beside him. “I would’ve remembered seeing you before. First time at a party like this, I can tell. Can I have your name, darling?”

Though it was a masquerade ball, he didn’t see the harm in giving his name. Maybe the stranger was new in the city, and if Papyrus ever wanted to find him again, trading names was only reasonable. “My name is Papyrus. And yours, good sir?” Giving a surname, on the other hand, was a bit much.

He grinned at that, his gilded fangs shining, and Papyrus had never before felt so breathless at the sight of a mere smile. “You can call me Red. Having a good time?”

Papyrus didn’t have it in him to be coy. “This outpaces any other party I’ve ever been to, by magnitudes,” he breathed. “Would you care to have my first dance of the night?”’

“I’m not much of a dancer, but for you...” He gave a skeletal wink, one flame-like pupil flickering out, before he offered his hand. “Maybe more than your first dance.” There was a rush of nerves—with a shorter partner, wouldn’t he have to lead, in a dance he didn’t recognize?—but Red was already whirling him away, taking control. Everything moved in a heated blur, too fast to know if he was performing correctly. The other dancers passed between each other, but Red kept a tight grip on his hands, not letting him move to another partner.

And why would he want to? He might be crude, but he was the first to approach Papyrus, and unwavering attention was nice after years of not receiving the adoration he deserved as a young, high-class man of strong intellect and handsome appearance. Yes, he was no _noble_ , but his father was more than respectable. Perhaps far more so, for he earned what other men had handed to them. Some people might look down on new money, but he considered it a mark of worthiness, while old money was overflowing with lazy fools.

And this Red was far more than Papyrus could have expected from this excursion. He had come to terms with the idea that he would marry outside of his monster subtype, as skeleton monsters were so rare that he hadn’t seen any outside of his family. Had accepted that he would be paired with someone fleshy or furred or scaled, someone who would tolerate bones at best. To be hand in hand with another skeleton was something he allowed in only his deepest romantic daydreams, and their phalanges fit so well together...

If it had been his decision, he would have danced there forever under that glittering ceiling, until his bones scattered, his toes falling apart in dress shoes that had been worn to tatters, but it was not meant to be. A twirl was cut short by him wobbling, a wave of dizziness passing over him, and if it were not for Red’s unexpected strength holding him up, he might have collapsed, to be trampled by the other dancers.

“Guess I pushed you a little too far.” Red began to pull him from the crowd, which launched into a more energetic, almost wild dance the moment they were clear from the press of bodies. He gulped in air, trying to steady himself, but it was thick with perfume, and it only dizzied him further. “Too much to drink and nothing else in you, am I right?” And past his mumbled, tangled insistence that he was fine, merely a touch lightheaded, he was pushed all the way to a waiting empty chair in front of the banquet.

Before he could protest, Red had already piled a plate high for him, with no rhyme or reason or a nod to the proper order that a meal should be eaten in. He set it down with a triumphant grin.

After his performance on the dance floor, there was no reason to get shy now. There was hardly anyone else at the table, most of the guests reaching new heights of frenzy on the dance floor. And with Red beginning to savage a cream puff, it was unlikely anyone would notice _him_.

Something still cut him short, and he paused, hand hovering over a delicate fork, for long enough that Red noticed. All of it looked so beautiful that cutting into it felt wrong enough to make his fingers shiver. He was a hobbyist chef himself, and it seemed like a waste to plate food so beautifully that the act of chewing would be a defilement. Yes, it was a show of skill and artistry, but there had to be a limit somewhere.

“Go on, it’ll all get thrown out unless you eat it. Only so much the servants can steal, so most of it goes in a heap to rot.” That was an uncomfortable excess in his eyes. Why couldn’t the staff have the remainder? Or, if that charity was too much for these nobles, then give it to the livestock. It didn’t settle right in his stomach, inconveniently enough, but he moved his knife to the first thing his eyes fell on, cutting the corner off of a fruit tart.

Red gestured with a pastry as he spoke, and _he_ seemed to have no hesitance in eating at all. There was sugar clinging to his fingertips and dusting his teeth, and Papyrus tried not to stare, dipping his head down to his plate as Red brought his fingers to his mouth. Stars in the sky, was he going to _lick_ them clean? He had to take another bite to distract himself.

“Good, right?” As if _good_ was all that needed to be said, when there were impassioned speeches that should have been given about the subtle spices cutting the sweetness of the cream and the fruits, some of which he could not identify at all, and the delicate pastry that supported it. But then again, he would have to stop eating to say those things, which was unforgivable. A second wave of dizziness overtook him, as if he was having a religious experience rather than a culinary one, and he had to cling to the table as he chewed.

The first few bites brought a hint of nausea with them, no doubt from the richness of it, but his appetite soon awoke. He _had_ danced rather vigorously and without a meal since the morning, which felt so far away now, a distant country to this waking dream. He had been too anticipatory about the ball to eat much beforehand, and he felt the need now. He soon moved on to a thick slab of meat, likely venison. Something caught in a stately hunt.

Red watched intently as he carefully sliced a piece free, and he wondered if perhaps Red had been on that hunt. Was this meal as much his contribution as it was the chef’s? It was deeply endearing, to be honest, to think such a carefree monster was perhaps nervous that the meat would not be to his taste.

But it was. It was not as well-cooked as he usually took his own, trickling blood onto the plate, but it was so tender and light he could overlook it. In comparison, all the fine meats of his past had been charred and tough with gristle. Was this night going to ruin him for normal food and dancing and the courting of polite noblemonsters?

“Well? Was that not the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth, or what? If not, I can give you something better.” He looked up from cutting a bite of roasted potatoes only for Red to wink at him. He expected to be handed a new dish, and only when Red looked at him expectantly, still grinning wildly, did he understand.

What a strange, perverse monster he had found! If not for his dress and his very presence at such an event, he would have assumed Red to be a common monster, the type that must crowd taverns and betting pools. He should have stalked away from someone with such low manners—Catty occasionally dipped into innuendo, but never so blatant. All of his etiquette training demanded that he take his leave and graciously never speak to this monster again.

And yet... And yet, at his startled, flustered look, Red backed down. That fanged grin vanished into an eclair, and it was hard to think of someone as predatory with chocolate cream smeared over their teeth, no matter how sharp. When the pastry was gone, he finally slid another plate in front of Papyrus, leaning close. “See? This one’s gonna blow the rest out of the water.” Their shoulders brushed, and he shivered as Red settled back into his chair.

The moment didn’t last. “My lord?” A servant waited, eyes downcast, until Red sighed and turned to look at them. This one seemed a step up from the monsters who served drinks, with an embroidered waistcoat, their mask shimmering rather than flat gray.

“Yeah?” Papyrus nearly dropped his fork. He had assumed the monster was addressing someone near them, but for Red to reply... _Lord_ couldn’t be the standard term of address for guests of the ball—he had been only a _sir_. Who was Red, to earn such a response?

“Her Majesty, the Queen of the Court, requests your presence at her side.” Well, they certainly did take things seriously at their secret society masquerade balls, didn’t they, to have such titles? And if he looked, across the hall so wide that her shape was a blur, he could indeed see a white-furred monster sitting on a throne. She was possibly the tallest monster he'd ever seen, and yet smaller still to the monster in the throne beside her, no doubt the ‘King of the Court.’ Her mask gleamed like crystal, the light flaring off of it. He didn’t look for very long, struck with the uncomfortable feeling that she was watching him in turn.

“Well, can’t keep her Majesty waiting,” Red said, but he didn’t sound put out. How did he know someone apparently so important?

He stood and brushed the crumbs from his front. “Wait for me, pet, okay? I’ll be back for you after the Queen gets her turn.” He slipped through the dancers with ease, and when the crowd surged, he was gone from sight. Of course, he would appear again once he had reached the dais, but it seemed wrong to keep watching, with the thought of her noticing.

He felt...adrift, without Red there. He tried to focus on the new dish he had been given, but the objectively fantastic quiche seemed diminished now. Did it really matter so much that Red was beside him, ready to hear him praise these delicacies? Could he really complain that she was taking some of Red’s time, when it seemed like she had orchestrated such an amazing event? Papyrus wouldn’t be there at all, if not for her.

Tapping his fork against the plate, he debated the merits of saving it for Red’s return, when a body collided into his back, arms wrapped around him. If not for the flash of neon in the corner of his eye socket, he might have startled, but by now he had weathered years of being affectionately tackled.

For once, they were not the brightest figures in the crowd, but both of them tried their utmost best regardless. They had located masks without a problem: Bratty in lavender velvet and Catty in iridescent scales, both tied with shining ribbons. They sat on either side of him, and Bratty stole one of the delicate cakes that he had yet to sample.

“Isn’t this so cool?”

“The _coolest_ , right?”

“It’s more than I could’ve ever dreamed,” Papyrus breathed out, and they nodded their agreement eagerly. Catty’s pupils were as wide as a cat’s could get, and both of them were disheveled from dancing. Bratty began to use the reflection in a gleaming silver tray to tidy up her elaborate hairstyle.

“Papyrus, guess who we saw! You’ll never believe it, honest.”

“I have no idea, please do enlighten me—”

“No, you have to _guess_.” At his shrug, Catty huffed. “Fine, spoilsport. When we first got here, we saw Alphys! Alphys of all people! D’you remember her?”

“You know, short lizard girl, yellow scales, glasses?”

“The name sounds familiar? But I can’t say I remember why.” He scanned the room, seeing a hint of yellow that soon vanished behind a cluster of people. “I suppose I met her at some event or another, but it must have been a long time ago.”

“Yeah, that was before we met you—we were pretty little when she left the city. We used to play together. She was like...”

“...Like a big sister to us, kinda? Went to go live with her aunt in the north, ‘cause they’ve got better schools up there or something.” Bratty sighed. “And, I mean, we were young, but she could have written at least.”

If he thought back hard enough, he could faintly recall a reptilian girl on the outskirts of a room, but he had no idea if it was imagination playing in the shape of a memory. “You’ll have to reintroduce me, then. If we were friends once, we can be again.”

“We would but she ran off when we saw her.”

“It’s kinda like she’s gone back to being scared of us again? Couldn’t get close at all. I’m surprised she came at all. She’s not a party girl.” Catty twirled a fork in the air, loaded down with immaculately seared salmon.

“It’s a shame, ‘cause she’s, like, super successful now. I dunno if you saw, but she made this automaton, and it looks so _real_. I would’ve guessed it was someone in really good costume paint, but it’s legit! It can talk and dance and everything. I wanna grill her on how she did it.”

“That’s amazing! Where is it? How is that possible?” He had seen little automatons before, dolls that could pour tea or write a very simple sentence, but that sounded like something out of a dream. Was it actually real?

Catty tugged at his arm, beginning to draw him away from the table. “C’mon! There was a crowd around it earlier, but maybe we can get closer now. Someone said it can have actual conversations, not just repeating stuff. It’s supposed to be _clever_ , I don’t know how she did it—”

“Excuse me, ladies.” All three of them came to a sudden stop, as Red approached. Was he already done with his Queen? “Keeping my dance partner company?”

“Back so soon, Red?” Papyrus hoped he wasn’t blushing, but he had never had a good poker face, despite being a skeleton. “Let me introduce you to two of my friends: this is Bratty and Catty.”

From the looks the two of them gave Papyrus, it was clear that, after the ball was over, he would be interrogated on every minute he had spent with Red. By now, he had come to accept that there were no secrets between himself, Bratty, and Catty, not when it came to suitors—doubly so for a rare skeletal one. He hoped Red would give him more to tell them later.

“Good to see so many new faces at one of these shindigs. Things get stale without fresh blood.” He bowed low to them, no doubt doing wonders for their opinion of him. “So, having an okay time? It’d be downright criminal if you weren’t, I’d have to make a complaint to management.”

“No, noooo, it’s a blast so far. We were gonna go see the automaton next! Has it cleared out over there, did you notice?”

“Mm, might be crowded still, nobody’s giving him a break tonight. I’ll see if I can squeeze you past.” Bratty let out a little whoop, Catty clapping in excitement. “Can’t say no to a group like you, anyway.”

He gave another flourishing bow, linked his arm with Papyrus’s, and began to lead them through the crowd, skirting the dancers. The way seemed far easier for Red than it had for Papyrus since he had arrived. Wide clusters of people tightened together to let them pass, and more than a few blatantly ducked out of the way. It was as if he was walking through his own territory, and all others were allowed there on his whim alone.

He led them to one of the far corners, people shuffling to make room for him when they saw. The rest of them were getting a bit jostled in comparison, but soon they had pushed close enough that shoulders weren’t blocking the view.

It didn’t look like any automaton he had ever seen before, almost resembling a monster. There were clear rivets and seams on its face, but it seemed like an aesthetic choice rather than a necessity of design. The rest was covered in a flowing red gown and long white gloves on both sets of arms. It wore the barest hint of a mask, barely covering more than the strip of its eyes—its long hair did more to obstruct its face than that mask.

The way it moved was so _fluid_ , as it spun its dance partner around, the dress flaring like the petals of a flower. There must have been from a music box inside of it, letting out a playful melody loud enough as to not be eclipsed by the orchestra.

The rabbit woman who had been its previous partner stumbled back into the watching crowd, looking breathless and faint, and the automaton looked for another, scanning the group with an impish smirk. Although he worried about his dance abilities being scrutinized in front of so many rapt people, Papyrus had to move forward, had to get a closer look...

...Only for Red’s arm, still around his, to squeeze lightly. He froze halfway through a step. Was he imagining it? Was Red not going to let go? It seemed to catch his tiny motion, glass eyes focused on him. Almost too quick to notice, it glanced at Red, and then turned away entirely. It sashayed over to Bratty and Catty, curtsying.

“Care for a dance, darlings? I know some that are splendid for three.” It had a smooth voice, with barely any mechanical undertones. They rushed forward eagerly, and, after they had given it their names, and it in return (“Call me _Mettaton,_ lovelies”), it was soon walking them through an elaborate, whirling dance.

Red patted his elbow. “Too bad, buddy. Who knows why he chooses some people and passes over the rest. Don’t take it too personally, he’s just a pile of bolts anyway.” Maybe he hadn’t intentionally held Papyrus back? Yes, that must have been it. A little bit of unconscious jealousy was endearing.

He couldn’t begrudge his friends when they looked to be having so much fun, but he couldn’t help his disappointment. Some of it must have shown on his face, and Red nudged him in the side. “Hey, I can think of a few other ways to entertain you. I think they’ll be busy for a while.”

It seemed like Bratty and Catty would be occupied for a while, so he let Red steer him away from the crowd. Admittedly, it had been a little stifling, all the excitement and curiosity weighing like an overstimulating shroud over him, all that heavy breathing, gasps, bodies pushing to get a better look. Although it was rather late to be getting shy, he snatched a drink from a passing tray, hoping it would lend him some extra courage. He needed it if he was to be alone with Red.

Skirting the other guests, Red took him to one of the balconies he had noted earlier. The night air was cool but not uncomfortably so, and he breathed deeply, letting the fresh air clear away the perfumes of inside.

His romantic daydream was coming to fruition. The balcony was dimly lit, the reddened glass of the lanterns leaving a rose tint over them both. Red had chosen well, and there was no one to see this handsome stranger step closer to Papyrus until they were standing close, side to side. Once Red had closed and locked the doors, with clouded glass ensuring that no one might peek through, it was as if the night belonged to them alone. Even the noise of inside had been muffled.

“Nice place, huh?” The carriage must have taken him into the countryside, to have such an untainted view. The estate sat at the cusp of a forest, the only building in view. Lovely, untamed, but not nearly as intriguing as what lay above. Once he looked up, he could barely turn away.

The sky above him blurred, and he came to the fuzzy conclusion that he had imbibed a few too many drinks. If not for Red steadying him, he would have stumbled. Without the lights of the city or any clouds to obscure it, it was brilliantly clear and crowded with stars, but he was, perhaps, too inebriated to pick out any constellations. But something about the sky, how huge and looming it was, quickened nausea in him, so he tore his gaze away and back to Red, now much closer. Now reaching a hand out to curl behind his skull, now pulling him in.

It was not his first kiss by far, but in a way, it was the first kiss that had ever felt right. All of his previous attempts had been discomforting, a squish of lips or brush of itchy fur on his teeth that he wanted to rub away. But this was the most natural thing in the world, the clack of teeth on teeth. He could feel the barest hint of a tongue, Red teasing without taking that full step into impropriety, but that too felt natural, buzzing with a familiar kind of magic.

Their masks knocked together, but it was a charming imperfection rather than a problem. Still... “Shall we take these off?” He tapped at Red’s mask, against one of the constellations below his left eye socket. It didn’t cover much, but he still wondered what was hiding underneath.

“Nah, keep it on. There’s plenty of time for that later.” Later? Would there be a later?

As if he somehow heard Papyrus’s longing thoughts, he pressed up against him, a kiss that demanded and conquered all of him. Red held him against his body, but those hands on his hips held a promise of more. “Summer solstice can’t come soon enough,” he whispered, once he had released Papyrus’s mouth. “I’ll see you there, right?”

“Yes!” Papyrus said fervently, and luckily Red grinned at his sudden burst of volume, rather than being put off. “Nothing could possibly keep me away!”

After that, words weren’t necessary.

-

Papyrus had never been one to sleep deeply or at length, so he had to ponder how many glasses he had emptied the night before as he struggled to wakefulness. His sockets felt like someone had poured sand into them, and his skull was sticky with drool. His feet ached.

He remembered leaving in the early hours of morning, when dawn had yet to color the sky, but the view outside his window was deepening into the midnight blue of night. Either he had slept through half the day, or he had been so terribly drunk that he misremembered his own exit. Hopefully, in the case of the latter, he had remembered his manners if nothing else!

There was a soft creak of floorboards on the stairs, coming to stop outside his bedroom. The door eased open, and Gaster poked his head, no doubt trying to check on him without disturbing his uncharacteristic rest. “Oh, finally up?”

“Evening, Papa,” Papyrus said, jaw creaking with an embarrassing yawn. His father laughed, venturing in to sit at the foot of his bed.

“I was beginning to wonder if you had been replaced with some impostor, to be this exhausted. Even as a child, you never slept so much. It must have been quite the event.”

He didn’t want to go into detail of how much he had enjoyed the ball and why, so he merely nodded. If he mentioned anything about dashing mystery monsters, Gaster would ask too many questions and, stars forbid, want to _meet_ Red. It would be deeply embarrassing, especially to admit he didn’t know Red’s surname or whether he lived in the city. “It was a wonderful time.”

“I’d hope so, considering how late you were in getting back.” Despite his words, Gaster was clearly teasing. A stricter parent might have locked him away, fearing the social consequences of a wayward heir, but his papa had always trusted in him.

Still, it was a bit rude to be found in bed at such a late hour, in crumpled party clothes. Hopefully he hadn’t disturbed Gaster’s sleep with his return. “I’m sorry—”

“Oh, hush. A young man out later than he should be is hardly the greatest crime under the sun. Get your partying out while you’re still youthful. I know, even at your wildest, you conducted yourself admirably.” Gaster stood, groaning a little bit at the stiffness of his patellae. “Now, I imagine you’re hungover, so let me bring you some broth. There’s supper left over from last night, but let’s not make you ill.” He swept out of the room.

Papyrus sighed, torn between falling back into his sheets and changing into clean clothing that wasn’t stiff with dried sweat and smelling of sweet wine. With a bath beforehand, he amended, grimacing down at himself. Hot water would surely ease the pain in his feet...

He shifted his blankets aside, ready to slip out of bed, when a glint in the sheets caught his attention. Regardless of the proof around him, this was the final piece to convince him it had been real, not a romantic phantasmagoria: his ball mask, which had apparently fallen off in his tumble into bed and now sat beside his hip. Even outside of that dreamlike mansion, among the normalcy of sheets and pillows, it gleamed like something precious, priceless.

As the night had progressed, he had become less and less cognizant of the mask, until it was as if it had become a natural part of his face that he spared as much thought to as he did his mandible. Perhaps he should have returned it, as it had been provided to him by the hosts. But he had left with it in hand, and Red had said nothing, nor had the doormen, nor any of the other guests or servants. So here it was, a memento. If the summer solstice was another masked event, he would be prepared.

Papyrus resisted the urge to swoon and sigh over the thought, as his father was coming back the stairs. And, although he didn’t keep secrets from his father normally, he tucked the mask back under the sheets. He would keep it safe until the solstice, until he could see Red again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> （*´▽｀*）Time to write some suffering.


	2. Summer

The change of seasons had never made him so restless before. Papyrus had always been energetic, but even his father would comment on how early he woke, how quickly he finished food while staying within the limits of mealtime etiquette. It was as if he needed to model the speed at which summer should arrive.

A single night had left him infatuated. Papyrus had a tendency to fall in love with exhausting frequency and speed, but this was a step above. His body sung with it, and each lengthening day was one less to seeing Red.

He tried to keep it from overcoming him completely. It was a waste of a beautiful season to spend it waiting for a single event. There were teatimes in the garden, strolls in the park, fleeing to the cooler art museum when the sun shone too brightly, but through all of it, he couldn’t stop thinking of the solstice. Almost all of it was accompanied by Bratty and Catty, and of course they wanted to fantasize about it too. He had other friends, acquaintances, but no one as close as them, no one who had seen something so lovely. Their experience now set them apart.

They had been caught up in the same frenzy. For them, it was Mettaton, Mettaton, Mettaton, to the point that he wondered what feat it had shown them while he was gone. They had told him about the dancing, its monster-like chatting, the cold kisses it laid on each of their hands before it ( _regretfully_ , in their words) took on a different dancer. But surely there must have been something else they were keeping to themselves. In all fairness, he had not told them the extent of his heated embrace with Red, only that there had been kisses. What they had between them felt too new and tender to be spoken aloud, even to his closest confidants.

He wondered if Bratty and Catty might buy Mettaton, or have a similar thing built for them, a rare toy that could keep up with their antics. Perhaps they were hoping to track down Alphys to make her an offer? They had told him at lengths of their attempts to find her, but she had all but vanished after those first glimpses. Hopefully she’d be at the summer event; having such a thing as a curiosity in their parlor would definitely lend some excitement to social visits.

The sun had yet to depart when they finally had the chance to do the ritual on the night of the solstice. There were a few people scattered about the park, enjoying the cooler evening, but did it matter if anyone witnessed it? They wouldn’t understand, they were not the few who held such secret knowledge. The three of them had purchased damask roses this season, and his fingers strayed relentlessly to stroke the petals, until his hands were heavy with its scent. Maybe, once he had arrived, he could present it to Red—he wouldn’t need it after arriving, would he?

They linked hands and circled the gazebo in a line, like children playing a skipping game. Even in that moment, things began to look fantastical: the fading sun left the grass glowing, and a floral breeze stirred the heat as it passed. It was like the beginning of a beautiful dream.

He had to wonder how it appeared to the other park goers, despite his joy. Wouldn’t it seem strange to an onlooker, for a masked and suited monster to whisk them away? That wouldn’t be terribly subtle; he had met nosy people who would go so far as to follow a carriage, and less bold monsters could still gossip.

Those concerns didn’t come to pass. On their fifth circle, a familiar voice called out to them, and Papyrus resisted the urge to shriek, though his companions had no such compulsion. “Long time no see, you guys.”

“Red!” He looked mythical, framed by the mundane park. Although they had become rather physically acquainted in spring, this was his first opportunity to see his paramour bare-faced: wide eye sockets, a rounded skull, brilliantly grinning fangs. All of it decorated with gold.

Red had kept the gold fang caps and streaks of paint, which made him look like a strange treasure. He clearly didn’t live in this city, as the gossip circles would have shredded him for such a bold fashion choice. Did he dress that way for each ball, or did he navigate all of his days as a gilded eccentric? He could imagine heirs and barons scoffing that Red looked like a pitiful artist who had flung his paint too wildly. Papyrus had never seen something so striking. It almost ached to look at the sun shining off him.

He gamely stood still for the ladies to hug him. “It’s been ages, you should’ve at least visited,” Bratty huffed. “Didn’t you two trade calling cards or anything?”

“Kinda defeats the purpose, don’t you think? Plus I don’t live around here.” He glanced at them in turn, at the edge of Papyrus’s beloved mask sticking from his pocket, Catty’s dangling from her hand, Bratty’s pushed up onto her forehead. “Shit, we really need to send around a memo. Summer’s not a masquerade—too hot for that.”

Papyrus’s hopes wobbled. He had been so enamored with the last event, that for it to change...

“Oh, don’t look like I’ve murdered your families, it’s not a big deal. Masks get too sweaty, so on the summer party, everyone wears facepaint instead. Or...” He glanced at Catty’s furred face. “They’ve got dyes and colored chalk too, for the fuzzy types. Still covers you up, but more lightweight than the masks.”

“Won’t people sweat it off?” Bratty asked.

“You don’t even _have_ sweat glands or whatever,” Catty said, which Papyrus found rather hypocritical, because cats barely sweat either, and not in the face. If anyone was at risk, it was him. He didn’t want it to drip off and create another social blunder.

“Nah, this is pretty heavy duty stuff, only comes off with proper soap and scrubbing. I can get pretty sweaty, I’m talking drenched here, but mine has never budged. And you can always go inside if it gets too hot.”

He held out an arm for Papyrus, though it would have been more polite to escort Bratty and Catty. Not that they didn’t have each other in hand, but...

Though all four of them could have comfortably fit in a single carriage, there were two waiting. “I thought the ladies might like a bit of privacy,” Red said, as a monster stepped down from the seat in order to open the door for Bratty and Catty. Clearly they suspected Red of wanting to have his own privacy, but they merely waved and winked before the door shut, shielding them from view.

Rather than waiting for the driver to do so, Red swung open the door of the second carriage, hand out to help Papyrus step up. What had seemed so spacious in spring now felt close, crowded with Red's presence but not unpleasantly so. He had barely time to look around before the carriage rolled into motion and Red took him into his arms.

His shyness lasted mere seconds before his mouth remembered the shape of Red’s. “It felt like an eternity, waiting for summer,” he said between ravenous kisses. “That can only account for my wantonness.”

“Never feels that long when I’m excited to see someone. Poor baby, having to wait. Show me how much you missed me.”

To do so with full honesty would take Papyrus into an unknown country, far from propriety. He had missed Red enough that he had dreamed about the other skeleton and about behaviors only suitable for the marriage bed.

And yet, it was so very private in the carriage that he could express himself partially, through the movements of tongue and hands. Red’s shirt was already untucked from the heat, or perhaps from mere roguish disarray, but it gave Papyrus an opportunity. It took no effort at all to slide his hands from their perch on Red’s shoulders, down down down to the forbidden area of his shirt hem. He paused there, wondering if fate would be strike him down with lightning for his bravado, but there was nothing but Red’s heavy breathing, spurring him on.

His ribcage was not as smooth as Papyrus might have expected from someone of his stature, but if he went on the hunts that Papyrus suspected, it was only reasonable. The texture of his ribs was novel under his phalanges, and they had a sensitivity that made Red groan and press closer to him, mouths colliding. His wicked, beautiful tongue tasted of cinnamon candies.

With Red practically in his lap, he barely noticed the turns they took or the length of their journey, concerned with hands on hips, with Red teasingly unbuttoning his shirt, just one button, and sneaking his small fingers inside. It would have been a disappointment to feel the carriage come to a halt if he wasn’t aware that there could be _more_.

He felt hyper-aware of his limbs, wondering if he looked rumpled or debauched as he stepped out, wincing at the glare of the sun after so long in that dim carriage. Though perhaps he didn’t need to worry so much, as his friends were too busy straightening their own attire and hair to notice. Summer made them all bold, it seemed.

Rather than the manor of spring, Red had brought them to a spread of gently sloping fields and orchards lush with plums and peaches (“Grab some fruit if you want, there’s plenty to go around,” Red said casually), spotted with large tents made of gauzy fabrics and a sizable pavilion. Although its decoration must have been the effort of a hundred sets of hands, if not more, it had a simplicity to it, when compared to the enchantment of spring. He didn’t think he could ever tire of a masquerade ball as magnificent as that, but clearly this mysterious group of nobles had more than one card to play.

Red gestured to the pavilion. “I got you guys here a bit early so you can get painted up first. You’re not the type who should ever have to wait in line.” Papyrus didn’t see any other monsters as they walked through, no guests or even monsters performing last-minute preparations. It was entirely still and immaculate.

Red left them in a hallway and soon returned with a tall mothlike monster who led Bratty and Catty off, patiently nodding along as they chatted about what designs they could get and in what color. Papyrus expected to be handed off to another artist, but his companion led him deeper in, the surroundings becoming more lavish. These had to be personal rooms and not servants’ quarters. Did Red want time alone with him before the paint went on? Perhaps he had ideas in mind that would undoubtedly smear any artwork.

The sitting room Red took him to must have been for his personal use. Down the hall, there was a bedroom with its door ajar, clothing scattered all over the floor. (Would he have a chance to see that room in more detail?) The sitting room itself had suit jackets draped over chairs, empty wine glasses on the table. No others seemed to have strayed into these rooms, not even a maid.

“We have the best artists around, but I get a kick out of doing it myself. Not the fanciest, but no one’s ever tried to stop me doing it. Seeing you in my design...” He sucked in a breath. “It’s gonna drive me crazy.”

That had him nodding eagerly, allowing himself to be led to a plush armchair. Red meandered into the washroom and returned with a jeweled box that proved to be filled with delicate bottles of paint.

He hadn’t expected Red’s hands to be so gentle. With his pointer finger, he dragged a trail of red paint across Papyrus’s cheek, holding his jaw with the other so he couldn’t flinch at how cold it was. His bones soon adjusted to the temperature, finding it sensual rather than uncomfortable. It didn’t terribly matter to him what the design was. He knew it would be beautiful.

“Mm, think a little gold would look good on you,” Red mused, turning his face from side to side. An embarrassing lust bloomed in Papyrus at the thought of them matching so regally. It was possibly the greatest trial of his life to stay still as he spread lines of gold down his bones, feeling a heat that he could not blame on the season. And, to his deep embarrassment, Red seemed to notice his... interest, gaze sliding down his body and back up with a devious smirk.

For a glorious moment, he thought Red would touch him the way he truly wanted. It didn’t matter if his fingers were covered in paint—Papyrus could think of nothing more erotic than those colors smearing and drying against his pelvis. Red leaned in, fangs parted, so close that they could have kissed had Red not held him in place... And...

And gave a tiny kiss to his nasal aperture, in control of himself by the time he leaned back with a grin.. Papyrus nearly wailed in frustration; he had never wanted so fiercely before.

“I wouldn’t _mind_ redoing it if it got smeared, but I think you’d rather be at the party than sitting here all day, so be a good boy and let it dry.” Red cleaned off his hands and began to paint himself in front of a mirror, adding an almost black crimson to the gold already decorating him. While he had been so delicate and exact on Papyrus, his movements now were decisive, slashes of paint across his skull. He must have been well practiced to do himself this every summer since he had been old enough to attend.

He hadn’t thought the painting had taken more than a few minutes, but in the hall, he could hear chatter that must have been other guests, and, farther out, the sound of carriages approaching. The ball was soon to begin, and Red offered his hand with a flourish. As they walked, he tried to think of staid, unerotic things: embroidering handkerchiefs, dry toast, speeches made at fundraising events. Anything that would keep him from literally glowing with arousal, thus making an embarrassing spectacle at the beginning of the party.

By the time they had navigated the winding halls, he had luckily calmed down. Bratty and Catty were already waiting, practically clutching each other in their anticipation. Both of them had been decorated in an elegant, flourishing matched design, Bratty in paints and Catty with her fur bright with dye.

He led them through a haphazard tour of the pavilion, pointing out hallways that would soon be filled with entertainers, and a dining room already well-stocked. They paused to get drinks, and he showed them a solarium populated with artificial ponds that held fish that gleamed metallic with the setting sun. No wonder he had shown them this first; he could imagine monsters drunkenly stumbling in. Spending a few minutes feeding the fish allowed for more of the guests to arrive, so the onus of beginning the party wouldn’t fall to them.

They followed Red out into the fields, which were already crowding with people. Many were adorned in a dizzying variety of colors and designs, and those who were not streamed towards the pavilion to remedy their bare faces. Many of them wore hoods, leaving him wondering if it was a blatant faux pas to be seen undecorated. Luckily Red had been so considerate and helped them avoid the embarrassment of being seen “naked,” as it were.

Papyrus heard the crackle of a bonfire long before the sight of it brought him to a halt. It towered towards the sky, burning a brilliant shade of violet that he had never seen in flames.

“Holy shit,” Catty breathed, reaching out to clutch Red’s sleeve. “That’s so cool, how’s it doing that??”

“Neat, huh? It’s gonna change color all night. There’s special stuff we put in the fire to make it burn like that.”

“Like what stuff?”

“Ah, ah. If I told you, that’d ruin the magic.” Catty huffed at him, but the beauty of it swept away her annoyance. Monsters had already begun to dance around it, as violinists and percussionists played a vibrant melody. The sparks spraying from the bonfire gave him pause, worrying about the flaring skirts of the innermost dancers, so close to the flames.

It may have been the ambience of the bonfires and the heated night air, but he found the summer dancing to be almost _primal_. This was no elegant waltz or two-step, and he couldn’t gauge any formal set of steps. The only course of action was to fling himself into the middle of it and begin to move, Red close to his side. Bratty and Catty soon spun away together, hand in hand.

The movements around him were so wild that he was carried along, away from Red. He tried to slip back to him, but with so many waving limbs and spinning bodies, he would likely be slapped in the face if he didn’t follow the beat along with them. In the space between songs, he resolved, he would find Red once more.

It would have been wonderful even alone, with the hypnotic music and the crackle of the bonfire, but he felt the presence of someone standing behind him, even closer than the crowded conditions demanded. Close enough that, through the fabric of his trousers, he could feel someone moving against his pelvis.

As wild as this event seemed, that was beyond the pale! Subtly moving away was ineffective, as the monster merely followed him, even daring to put their hands on him!

He didn’t want the night to be soured by confrontation, but he clearly had no choice. Squirming around, he turned to face the impolite dancer, a tall ursine monster with tan fur. Papyrus couldn’t help staring at the blue and green chalk adorning him, spirals that seemed to rotate. The heat was clearly affecting him. He needed to return inside and find something to drink, but the moment he tried to sidle away, the monster grabbed him once more, pulling him so close he could smell his cologne.

“Finally got you away from that self-important bastard,” he said, his voice low and smooth, barely audible over the music. “Wanna show me what makes you so special that he has to throw his weight around and not let anyone near you?”

Papyrus, on the other hand, saw no reason to lower his voice. There was a monster with his hands on his hips! Let everyone notice! Fear of public impropriety was a good way to dodge handsy, overly “friendly” monsters. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t know you or what you’re referring to, so please remove your hands!” And yet, he must have been far overheated to be captivated by his eyes, to almost enjoy the feeling of his hands unless he steadfastly reminded himself he didn’t want to be touched. Were those few glasses of champagne in the pavilion stronger than he had thought?

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” His grip tightened, and Papyrus wondered if he would find a bruise the next morning. Although it was a foolish thought, he worried he couldn’t be intimate with Red that night if he was marked by someone else. Now was not the time to ponder it, not when he was cornered so suspiciously, but it lingered in his mind.

Another monster, distinctly avian, stepped up beside him, and for a moment, Papyrus believed he had received a savior. But, as he could feel a third presence lurking behind him, the bird giggled into her wing tip. “About time you got him alone. I can’t believe _this_ is the one off-limits.”

“I sincerely insist you must have the wrong person,” Papyrus gasped out. Even if he escaped those hands, he’d only back into the one behind him, and he didn’t want to glance away from the first two. None of the dancers were paying attention, though he had the uncomfortable feeling that they were willfully ignorant. Many of them had moved in a way that kept their backs to him, when previously they had been spinning in circles.

“Think you should listen to the gentleman and back off.” Red strolled into view, his grin stiff, eye sockets flaring with magic. Papyrus jolted as much as he could while being so restrained. He couldn’t help feeling _ashamed_ , though he logically knew the situation was not his fault. A more insensitive monster would see him as unfaithful for being caught in a stranger’s embrace.

“Nah, I think he owes me a dance,” the monster said, though his companion shifted nervously beside him. “Wait your turn.”

“I didn’t agree—”

“Red, would you shut it up already? You picked a pretty one, but it’s mouthy too. Can’t believe you’re so busy playing with your food that you let it do as it pleases.” His hands tightened around Papyrus’s hips, holding Papyrus flush with his own body. “And you can play at being a bigshot “prince” all you want, but if you don’t take him, one of us is going to—”

There was a horrid noise as Red seized the fingers that had touched Papyrus, squeezing down until they cracked. It gave him enough leave to pull back, retreating behind Red. The monster’s two companions both scattered, vanishing behind flaring skirts and leaving Papyrus’s primary tormentor behind. By the sound of it, Red was breaking the bones in his hand. But that couldn’t be. The monster seemed in pain, certainly, but he would have been screaming had Red truly broken something.

Still, as terrifying as it was to be cornered and fondled and leered at, such violence seemed disproportionate. Papyrus couldn’t abide by it. “Red, that’s enough, I think he’s learned his lesson,” he begged.

When Red let go, he hoped his words had been effective. The monster stumbled away, clutching at his hand. And then Red followed, taking a few steps before Papyrus could register them. “Lemme go deal with the other ones real quick—” Red darted away, and though Papyrus clutched for his sleeve, it slid through his phalanges like water.

“Please, don’t go,” Papyrus called out, and though he was loud enough that several people in the crowd glanced toward him, Red either had not heard or was ignoring him. A little vindictive part of him thrilled at the idea that Red might use his connections with the host and hostess to have those ruffians expelled, but was it truly worth it to be left alone? As good as revenge might be, he wanted comfort far more, and he worried of what that revenge might entail.

He took a few steps following Red, but he was unceremoniously elbowed in the sternum by a dancer, and by the time he caught his breath, the night had swallowed Red up. He followed in the same direction, but when he finally reached a thinner section of crowd, the other skeleton had vanished from sight.

Papyrus had no idea where to search for him, or if it was even wise to follow in such a tempestuous situation. It would have been sensible to stay in the area, so that Red would find him on his return. But the heat of the bonfire was beginning to become uncomfortable, and he was jostled as he walked. The shivering nerves that had resulted from that strange confrontation still wracked his body. And what if his tormentors returned and found him? Clearly he needed a sort of quiet and solitude that this place could not provide.

With a final glance around for Red, yielding nothing, he began to walk towards the quieter orchard. It was dimmer there, with only lanterns dangling from branches to guide the way. He found it dark enough to be peaceful, while bright enough that he would be able to see someone approach. He didn’t want to be caught unawares for a second time, without a protector.

So he moved deeper into the lines of trees, avoiding rows where monsters writhed against each other in the shadows, backs pressing against tree trunks. When he found a quiet section, he moved in deeper, pausing occasionally to survey the fruit and, finally, pick a few plums to take with him. The branches drooped heavily with their burden—no wonder the guests were encouraged to partake.

Alphys was sitting so huddled up and quiet that he nearly stumbled over her as he walked. She didn’t respond to his sputtered apologies, staring up and up at him. The glitter across her scales caught the light, bright pinks and purples. Eye-catching, certainly, but it didn’t suit her features or, if judging by Bratty and Catty’s recollections, her temperament. What was she doing out here?

“Good evening, Alphys. Are you enjoying yourself?” She squeaked before her name had fully passed his teeth, staring up at him. Looming over her would only make her more uncomfortable, so he sank into the grass beside her.

“Oh, P-Papyrus. Shouldn’t you be back at the party?” It didn’t surprise him to know that she knew his name, as he knew hers. Did she remember him?

“It’s wonderful so far, but I needed a moment to breathe, that’s all.” He turned a plum around in his hands, finding no flaws, no reason not to bring it up to his mouth. It was incredibly ripe, juice splattering on his teeth and jaw. Luckily he had a handkerchief! There were limits to how wild he was willing to become that night, and wandering around sticky with fruit juice, like a child, was well beyond those limits.

He had never tasted anything so sweet, and soon he dropped the pit into the grass, all the flesh stripped away. She watched with an expression he could only describe as horrified fascination. Did she feel too shy to take any of the fruit herself, even so far away from watching eyes?

Once his face and fingers were clean, he turned back to her. “Are _you_ enjoying yourself? I would have thought you would be with Mettaton, helping it run.”

She gave an uncomfortable giggle. “No, n-not really. He doesn’t need me much at all anymore, not for his normal performances. If he breaks down, someone will come get me, but otherwise...” Otherwise she was all alone. Bratty and Catty hadn’t said much about Alphys after spring, more interested in the creation than the creator. He couldn’t imagine how lonely Alphys could be, waiting at the outskirts of these celebrations, approached by no one, enjoying nothing. Only there in case of emergency.

“You could come dance with me? Or we could head inside for food more substantial than this fruit.” It didn’t seem proper to leave a monster all alone on the longest day of the year. Dancing seemed too much for someone so timid, but surely there had to be some activity that would appeal to her.

“You should go b-b-back to Red,” Alphys said, shaking her head, a little cloud of glitter drifting off of her. “He likes me better than most, but...” She bit down on her lip, hard enough that it glimmered with dust, and Papyrus wondered if she and Red weren’t friendly after all. Before tonight, he would have assumed everyone liked and respected him, but that impression had been shaken. “...But he wants to keep you for himself.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” After he had met Bratty and Catty, his loneliness had been neatly solved, but he recognized her posture and aura as painfully familiar from his early childhood. Head bowed, chin nearly touching her chest, knees pulled close. Had she no friends in the new city she had moved to? Did she truly never visit the people she had left behind?

“You should get out of here,” Alphys mumbled, plucking up a handful of grass and shredding it. She didn’t look him in the eye as she said it, and a faint tremble flowed through her. “You really should go, _now_.” Her words were quiet but far stronger than anything else she had said, and he instinctively stood and took a step back.

Still, he couldn’t retreat without ending the conversation. He tipped his head towards her, brushing off his trousers. “My apologies for bothering you, Miss Alphys. I’ll be going now.”

He tried his best not to take it personally. Papyrus saw the same behavior in his father—for all that Gaster was doting and gentle, a scientist often lived in their own mind, sometimes unaware of how they came across. Alphys didn’t _mean_ to dismiss him so harshly. And it was rude to continue pestering a gentlemonster when they were giving off subtle hints that they wanted to be left alone, let alone saying it as plainly as she had. It was only right to make his way out of the orchard, leaving her behind.

Returning to the light of the bonfire and the dance only renewed the heavy feeling in his ribcage, although he was trying not to acknowledge it. Where was Red, anyway? Papyrus had assumed he would wait for him. He couldn’t help feeling cross—what a thing to do to your guest! Especially a guest that you were courting! The revelry was definitely beginning to drain on him, so he ventured back inside, hoping to find the feast that Red had promised. Those few plums were not enough to sustain him after dancing.

The pavilion looked mystical, far removed from what it had been an hour ago, now with only lanterns to light the way. The main hall, where rows of tables seemed to groan under the weight of its cuisine, was quiet, a few people picking their way through a roast or knocking back glasses of gleaming champagne. He was free to sit alone once he had gathered a plate together. His loneliness didn’t diminish the taste, luckily, and it cheered him up slightly to wonder at the intricacy of their pie lattices.

Food could distract him for only so long, and Papyrus began to wander the halls. Admittedly, he was curious about the entertainments Red had mentioned, so if he didn’t find his friends, hopefully he would still enjoy himself.

He thought he could hear the faintest strains of Catty giggling, so he tried to wander in that direction, though each room he passed held something new and exciting. It was difficult to doggedly move forward when there were glimpses of magicians or fire dancers or acrobats in the doorways he passed, not to mention rooms full of material curiosities. By the time he tore his attention away from a room filled with enormous glass aquariums housing luminescent fish, Catty had gone silent, leaving him unsure if he was still on the right path or not.

Maybe it was selfish to go searching for them. He would be introducing a note of melancholy to their joy; was it really worth it to treat his loneliness as more important than the night they had been waiting months for? But words pressed against the inside of his teeth, longing to be spoken, and surely his friends would understand that he needed to seek them out. How many times had one of them come to him for comfort, saying _someone grabbed me at that dance_?

In a much quieter hallway, Papyrus found them. He kept thinking, as he looked into the room, that the door wasn’t locked. That hiding didn’t matter. That anyone at all could look inside. That it was as much entertainment as all the rest. Someone laughed behind him as they walked by, but he couldn’t look away from the sight before him.

Horribly, his gaze fell on Mettaton and struggled to look past it, to his friends crumpled on the floor. The automaton had never looked so real before, artfully disheveled in only its petticoats, paint spiraling down its four bare arms. As it saw Papyrus, its lips curved in delight.

In one of its painted hands, it held a pale gray soul.

Even the wildest, most promiscuous young monster knew that souls were too precious to toy with. Papyrus had only ever seen his own, and only when it was safe to tug it free. He thought of quiet, almost meditative nights huddled in bed, with quilts pulled up over his skull to muffle the precious silver light that his core gave off. He would gently ghost the tips of his fingers over it and imagine his future spouse giving it the same reverence. This soul was far duller, and he despaired to think of what had stolen its glow. That metal hand was gripping far too tightly, denting the soft shape of the soul. Mettaton’s fingers looked to be a moment away from puncturing it completely.

Did it belong to Bratty or Catty? Bratty looked to be in pain, doubled over and holding her torso, but Catty was altogether unconscious, if not comatose. She had fallen to the floor in a tangle of skirts, playing cards scattered and bent around her. In the dim of the room, Papyrus couldn’t tell if her chest moved to take in breath. She couldn’t be _dead_ , he assured himself, or she would have dusted. She had to be alright.

It was unquestionable that he would leap to defend them, striding over the threshold with bones tearing through the floor around him, ready to be launched at him, both blue and white. He had always prided himself on the sturdy nature of his bullets, but he had to wonder if it would have any effect on metal.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mettaton said, rising to its feet in a fluid motion, unconcerned by the bones around it or by its state of undress. More and more he was realizing that Mettaton was conscious of Papyrus’s incoming attack in a way that a machine couldn’t be; it just didn’t _care._ “I’d like to think I’m a lot faster than you, darling. Before your attacks hit me—and believe me, they’ll only be an annoyance—I can do away with this.” It waved the soul in the air carelessly, and from Bratty’s whimper, Papyrus was sure it was hers.

“It doesn’t take much pressure at all to squeeze a soul to bursting, especially with hands like these.” Mettaton twirled the fingers of a free hand at Papyrus, almost flirtatiously, as if it was still the performer with Papyrus gaping on in adoration. “And it’d be a shame if you _startled_ me with your silly little magic and I clenched my hand on accident, wouldn’t it? I’d think it’d be best for you to dispel it and back up. Normally I’d invite you to play, but I know you’re spoken for, so you’d best get back to him.”

“Don’t hurt them,” Papyrus breathed, at a loss for anything else to say. He began to dismiss the bones in slow, careful movements—normally he let them shatter for the effect, but no doubt that was “startling.”

“If you don’t hurry it up, I will, so that’s on you. Go back to your master, won’t you? And shut the door, or I might accidentally slip and...” It bared its teeth, and with all the times he had seen it beaming, he had never noticed how sharp those teeth were. It was a struggle to look away and back to its hand, to be sure it hadn’t squeezed in that moment of distraction.

“Pap...” He had never heard Bratty sound so raw and frail, as she struggled to lift herself on trembling arms. “Get out, now. Don’t let him get you too...” Raising her head seemed like a monumental task, but she managed to do so in order to give Mettaton a fierce glare. “I swear to fuck, if you touch him, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

And it _laughed_. “I’d like to see you try, sweetie. Be a dear and settle down.” All it had to do was nudge her with the toe of its stiletto, and her arms buckled, sending her back to the ground. If it _kicked_ her, Papyrus was sure it could break her ribs.

There was no choice but to obey. He walked backwards, trying to watch Bratty and Catty for as long as he could. When it made an impatient noise at how slowly he moved, Papyrus finally gave in, shutting the door. As he stood there, paralyzed, he heard the definitive click of a lock.

A small crowd had formed behind him to watch, snickering to each other, and he pushed through them to flee. He had to find Red—he liked Papyrus’s friends well enough, didn’t he? With how aggressive he had become to defend Papyrus, he could use that strength to save them. Or Alphys, Alphys could shut it down—

He collided with Red several hallways later, nearly tumbling to the floor. If it wasn’t for Red’s hands supporting him, he wasn’t sure he could hold his own weight. “Was someone bothering you again, sweetheart, because I—”

“No! I mean, yes, but not me, it’s Bratty and Catty. They went off with that machine, and it was threatening them, and...” He had imagined a daring rescue, Red demanding to know where they were, marching off to destroy Mettaton.

But he didn’t respond with the urgency that the situation demanded. “So Mettaton’s got them, huh?” For a moment, his face held a spark of interest, which was far from _urgency_ but leagues better than the calm grin to which he returned.

Papyrus pressed on. Once he understood the situation, Red would help. “Yes! And we need to go, it was hurting Bratty, and I don’t know what happened to Catty, only that she looked to be unconscious, and—”

“Hey, hey, calm down for a sec. You really don’t need to get so worked up about it.”

“Wh-what?”

Red had the audacity to shrug. “They’re great gals, and sure, maybe I should feel bad, but me and Mettaton got an _agreement_. He minds my territory, and I stay out of his.”

“His territory?” He had been reduced to repeating Red’s words in a foolish haze.

“Yeah, sure.” Red reached out, running a finger down Papyrus’s decorated cheekbone. “When I saw you the first night, I thought, ‘welp, better not let anyone in on that, that one’s mine.’ And Mettaton took a shine to those friends of yours. The old scrapheap might want you too, that greedy fuck, but as long as I leave the girls to him, he’ll return the favor. Get it?”

“No, I don’t get it! Mettaton’s hurting them, what part of that do you not understand?” Red almost seemed _surprised_ that Papyrus didn’t smile and nod and agree with such bizarre, horrible reasoning. That confusion was enough to loosen Red’s grip on his wrist, and Papyrus backed away from him.

Red was blocking his way forward, so he inched his way to the doorway behind him. He still had a chance to find Alphys outside, so he could... What? Save the two of them, when his first attempt had failed? In his panic, he couldn’t think of a better plan. If he reached outside, maybe he could find a carriage and escape by himself, but that was a level of cowardice he had not fallen to, not yet.

What advantage did he have against a machine with both of his friends at its mercy? More and more it seemed like Alphys was his only chance, and he could only hope she was still in the orchards. Or at the party at all; it wouldn’t be so surprising for her to grow tired of it all and leave early.

Could he escape Red first? He was still a few yards away from the door, heading into a straight hallway that would be impossible to hide in. Would he go so far as to chase him down? “What’s wrong, babe?” Red asked, covering the minimal distance Papyrus had managed to take.

All of his speculation shuddered to a halt as Red moved towards him, humming a tune that he remembered from mere hours ago, when he had been whirling to it outside. He hadn’t thought of it as frantic then, merely energetic, but now it made him feel nauseated, like he had been spinning in circles endlessly. His skull buzzed, almost so loud that he could barely hear anything but that song.

He took another step backward, and his heel caught against a decorative urn. Papyrus toppled over in a way that was almost comical, barely managing to catch himself on his elbows before his skull struck the tile. It left him in a daze, and Red took the opportunity to kneel down onto him, straddling his waist. He was still smiling.

If he could have, he would have asked, _begged_ , to be left alone, but his voice had fled him completely. All he could manage was a confused groan, shoving at Red’s chest until he apparently grew bored of ignoring it and very gently pinned his hands down and put a blue bone through each.

“No, shh, shhhhh. Settle down, darling. Let me make everything better.” He very much did not want Red’s vision of “making things better.” How was he still so calm? He shouldn’t be here at all, instead defending Bratty and Catty from what had to be a machine gone awry. The fact that he was pursuing Papyrus said something that he wanted to pretend away, but the fear would not allow it. He couldn’t possibly trust this monster.

There was nowhere left to retreat to, Red’s body surprisingly heavy for being so slight, and all he could do was ineffectually squirm. Red pulled something from his pants pocket, a tiny vial. He popped the cork free and let something iridescent trickle out onto his fingers. It seemed too thick to be perfume. A lotion?

“It’s really not a big deal,” Red continued, in a voice like he was talking to some feral creature. “They’re fine, so are you. Let’s forget about this and head back to the party.” His clean hand darted out, and he held Papyrus’s jaw still. He struggled and kicked, hands taking minor damage from the movement of his struggles, but all of his efforts were for naught. He brought those gleaming fingers closer, slicking cold against the rim of each eye socket in turn.

And then his finger slipped _inside_ Papyrus’s eye socket, and he jolted, though there was none of the expected agony. It wasn’t inherently dangerous to touch, but it was so sensitive and magic-infused that Gaster had advised against it, in an uncomfortable and matter-of-fact lecture about wedding night intimacies. A non-skeletal monster wouldn’t know how to safely navigate eye socket touch.

But Red clearly did. His fingers drifted in tiny circles, spreading more of the substance inside of his skull. It felt much warmer now, like he had settled into a bath and let the water rush in. That heat didn’t confine itself to his skull, and it soon flowed down into the rest of him, until his pelvis and spine were bright with magic that gleamed around Red’s form. He had never seen his magic so bright, so unrestrained. Red glanced back at his trousers and beamed.

Red brought a thick, trembling droplet up on his finger, letting it trickle into his acoustic meatus. One on each side, and finally, finally the hissing static eased, and his hearing expanded past Red’s voice: his own slowing breath, laughter in the distance, music. “Back with me? That’s it. You’re doing great, have a little more. Everything’s fine. There’s no reason to be so freaked out.”

Red poured the rest of the vial out onto his hand, mindless of the waste as gleaming liquid dripped off of his fingers and onto the floor beside him. Papyrus was so enamored with the fallen droplets that Red had to tip his skull back up, so that they were looking at each other once more. Gently, with his clean hand, he pulled Papyrus’s jaws open, needing only a light touch. With the other, he began to push in, and though his fingers were small, they crowded his mouth. It should have gagged him, but something about the taste made his jaw relax, taking Red’s hand in deep enough that it brushed the invisible magic of his throat. More of that liquid dripped into him, chasing everything else away.

The world narrowed down to the skeleton in front of him, as the darkness unwound, evaporated. Everything was full of light, Papyrus especially. Red had turned him into the sun. His body uncurled from its tight knot of bones, warm and loose and thoughtless. The blue bones in his hands vanished, but he had been struck by blissful stillness, and it hardly mattered.

Red sat back on his heels, looking pleased, and Papyrus reveled in knowing that he had created that expression. “Look at you,” Red whispered. “You look like your bones are made of seashells. Abalone or some shit. Fucking gorgeous.” He was hoisted to his unsteady feet, and Red half-carried him over to one of the mirrors lining the halls.

He did indeed look like the rainbow innards of a shell, like gleaming pearls, like a jewel given living form. It had left a gleaming layer on top of his facepaint, which had barely smudged from... from his brief upset. In Red’s arms, as he praised and pet and carefully led Papyrus along, he could barely remember that he had been upset at all, let alone why. Perhaps he had spilled a drink on someone important? The thought made him giggle, and he stumbled, legs shaking.

“Steady there,” Red said cheerfully, keeping him from collapsing. Despite Papyrus’s long frame, he seemed to have no trouble carrying him along. “We’re almost there, then you won’t have to worry about staying upright.”

He wanted to go back into the summer night, but he was being led deeper inside the building, the walls becoming a bit more familiar. They were heading to Red’s suite? He wanted to dance, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay properly vertical.

“I don’t need to be set down for a _nap_ ,” Papyrus protested. “I’m not a child.” He didn’t want to twist out of Red’s hold, as pleasantly cold and bony as it was, but he did stomp his foot and almost fell once more.

“Trust me, I’ll keep you occupied. The night’s not over yet.”

“Oh. Good! I look forward to it!” It would be nice, spending some time alone together, without watching eyes. They could dance in his parlor, or send someone for more food! Or... Or kiss, he realized, as Red pulled him toward the bedroom he had wondered about mere hours ago. As he flopped down onto the bed, dizzy with sudden movement and the rapid flutter of his soul, he heard the door lock. How considerate of Red, to make sure they’d have no distractions or intruders! Not... not like Bratty and Catty...?

The thought swept away as Red climbed on top of him, pressing him down into the sheets. They smelled of bones and a tinge of Red’s sweat, just enough to be endearing and not repugnant. These sheets had a personality to them. He could imagine Red rolling around after an abrupt awakening, trying to return to dreams. Could imagine Red touching himself in this bed...

Papyrus _whined_ when Red stopped kissing him to lean over the bed. When he straightened up, he was holding Papyrus’s hat, tugging the rose free. As Papyrus watched, mouth agape, he pulled the petals apart and sprinkled them around him, tossing the stem away. “Gettin’ real romantic now,” he said with a snort, but Papyrus had never felt so seduced before. It smelled wonderful, and if their intimacies crushed the petals, he could imagine how fragrant it would become.

He tugged at Papyrus’s waistcoat with enough force to tear buttons free, and he couldn’t help the delighted giggle that pulled from him. His own hands were almost too clumsy to disrobe Red in turn, buttons and fastenings demanded a level of focus he couldn’t gather while having his own shirt pulled free. Luckily Red took pity on him by undressing them both with decisive movements. It might have been nice to be unveiled slowly, but this way was so _passionate_.

He paused at the sight of two large, growing bruises on Papyrus’s hips. He supposed another dancer had knocked into him with enough force to bruise, or perhaps he had clipped the edge of a table. For all its mottled color, it didn’t hurt at all, even when Red pressed his fingers against them.

“Mm, don’t like _that_. If you’re gonna be marked up, it’s gonna be from me.” Green light flowed from his fingers, and Red healed it, just like that. Strange, how the food hadn’t healed it earlier, but now he was unblemished, warmer from the touch of Red’s magic. He could think of little better than being bruised by _him._

Papyrus was delighted to learn that the gold on Red’s body continued on, under his clothing. There were dashes and streaks of it on his arms, his spine, all the way down to his gleaming, gilded pelvis. Had he painted himself hours ago in anticipation of this moment? Though his hands were clumsy, he did his best to pet along the golden trails running across his arms. It felt rougher than he expected from paint, a texture that insistently drew his fingers to pet again and again.

Although he had an excess of magic, glowing red with it, it refused to take any solid form. While Red’s member stood proudly, his own magic flowed without solid form. “Really sorry, I don’t know why this is happening...” Papyrus said, with a hiccuping giggle. He’d had plenty of encounters in the past, and usually the problem was dispersing the magic afterward, not forming it at all.

“Nah, I can work with this,” Red said. Grinning, he dipped a finger into the cloud of magic, sending it swirling with a speed that made Papyrus moan.

He could think of nothing so beautifully lustful as what he and Red did together. He had rarely ever undressed for a few minutes of kissing or groping, so Red was the first person to see him so unencumbered. He looked at him with a lust that made Papyrus breathless and wanton, grinding his pelvis and its cloud of magic against Red’s thick member.

He had never felt so sensitive before. Each stir of his magic left it dripping, and the first time that Red pierced through and rubbed against his pubic symphysis, Papyrus wailed. Even his most successful erotic endeavors, as few as they had been, had never felt so intense, and he began to rut at him with abandon, fingers hooked in his ribs. Soon they were both slick with magic, their similar colors blending together.

When Red held his hips against the sheets, Papyrus nearly howled with disappointment, raking his fingers against any bone he could reach. Only a few moments without contact, and he felt like he was being tortured, but it was only to rearrange them, so Red had a proper angle to thrust into his narrow pelvic cavity.

Was this something like what he would eventually expect from marriage? The sheer gall of it alone had him rocking his hips into the contact. His movements were clumsy, but Red hardly seemed to care. His girth assured that he rubbed against the sides, sending waves of pleasure through the whole of his pelvis.

An unexpected brush against his coccyx left Papyrus clawing at Red’s spine, no doubt drawing thin lines of magic. “Do that again, or... or... Or I shall flip you over and do it myself!”

“Fun as that sounds, what the gentleman wants, he gets.” With surprising vigor, Red thrust through him, hitting his coccyx and sacrum with each stroke.

That touch proved to be his undoing, and he could barely do more than scratch at Red until his back was assuredly a mess, spine arched, skull pressing back into the mattress. It was the splatter of liquid on his coccyx and small, clever fingers teasing the holes of his sacrum that sent him into a blurred and mindless orgasm. He could hear himself wailing but had no room in him for shame. Red, delirious with his own pleasure, rolled off of him, laying at his side.

He felt more like a pond than a monster, ripples flowing through him from the tossed stone of his completion. He knew he should clean himself before the release dried on him, but for a moment, he wanted to breathe and watch his magic wisp away like morning fog, nothing more.

A hand played along his bottom ribs, reaching through the gaps to stroke those stretches of bones that had never received another’s touch before.

It was lovely, before that clever hand slipped inside and pulled his soul free.

Red scooted up to the headboard, out of reach. After a moment of admiring it, he raised the soul up to his mouth, and Papyrus had the uncomfortable (arousing) thought that he meant to kiss it. The feeling of breath against its surface made him writhe, the feeling almost painful in its intensity. Something about the scene seemed so familiar to him. But instead of pressing it to his teeth, he parted them in a way that sent panic tearing through his euphoria. He was going to _bite_.

“Please, stop! This isn’t funny, Red.” He started to lift himself off the bed, though his limbs were still pudding, and the new bout of shaking didn’t help. He wanted to return to the kisses and the feeling of ribs sliding and slotting together. Why had this happened so quickly?

“Hm? What was that?” Halfway through opening his mouth, Red stopped. He couldn’t stop shivering from warm breath against his whole being. It was close enough that those fangs prickled very slightly, on the threshold of pain.

“Give it back,” Papyrus said, in a voice breathy with fear and—although it horrified him to admit it—unwanted excitement. It felt as if he was giving Red one last test, as if this night had been a blundering parade of innocent mistakes. He was surely going to laugh awkwardly and hand it back and apologize for stepping past an unexpected boundary. And perhaps they would hold each other and kiss until the erotic mood returned.

“You know,” Red murmured, so close that Papyrus could feel the words on his soul, “a lot of monsters would be begging me to do it, by now. All that prep should’ve done it.” Papyrus tried to inch closer in a subtle way, hoping to snatch it back, but Red easily ringed himself in blue bones, a perimeter that was too narrow to allow even a phalange between them.

“That’s pretty impressive, not gonna lie,” Red continued. “You’ve got more willpower than I thought. Maybe we can make this into a game? We can see how long you last without your soul. It’ll be practice for the real thing.” He tapped the surface of Papyrus’s soul, and even that light touch made him convulse with something beyond pain or ecstasy. “I’ll keep a hold of this, so don’t worry about that. Gonna keep it nice and safe.”

In the moment he pulled the soul away from his mouth, he almost believed Red would dispel the bones and give it back, despite his words. Instead he maneuvered Papyrus’s soul into his own rib cage, and it vanished as if it had been his own. Gone, stolen so easily. He tried to reach out to it, to call it back to himself, but he felt nothing at all. “It’d be kinda hot to see how long you’ll last without it.”

The dreamy, opalescent tint over the world dropped away. His mind cleared, and he remembered what had happened, what he had _let_ happen. Had he willingly climbed into bed with someone who would leave Bratty and Catty to be harmed, possibly killed?

“Please, Red...” He was shivering so deeply that the words barely emerged. “Please, if this is some sort of cruel game, then you’ve seen the reaction you want. Give me back my soul. I thought that... that we had a strong connection, if not love, so why are you doing this?”

Red cocked his head, amusement fading into a soft confusion. “Pretty sure I did this _for_ love, y’know?” Was he blushing, while doing and saying such a thing? “The answer’s no, not giving it back. I’ll see you in fall. Don’t think people usually can go that long without it, but you’re tough, you can hold out. Or if you beg nice enough to the night sky, I’ll take pity on you earlier than that.”

“What? I’m not going to leave without my soul of all things!” He reached forward, wondering how much damage his arm would take passing through blue magic. How much damage his _soul_ would take if he pulled it through.

His fingertips had just began to burn when Red spoke up, though that was far too inadequate of a word. He commanded, he ordered, he cast magic into the air in the guise of words. “ _Go home, Papyrus. We can play again when you’re a little more desperate._ ”

He didn’t want to obey, but his thoughts and wants had neatly detached from his body. His leg tangled in a sheet as he tried to crawl from the bed, and he hit the floor with a jarring thump. The air felt unnaturally cold for summer, and he fumbled for his clothing, pulling on the essentials that would hide his bones from sight. It wasn’t enough to warm him, and he rubbed at his arms furiously as he edged to the door.

Red didn’t do anything but watch, which seemed almost as frightening as all the rest. He sprawled there, touching himself, as Papyrus lunged for the door. There was a moment when he had forgotten the lock and wrenched at the handle uselessly, as Red went into delighted hysterics. Once he realized his mistake, however, he sprinted away, slamming the door behind him.

The hallway he rushed into was different now. The once-gleaming walls looked.... dingy. The tile beneath his feet was cracked and jagged, and he fell more than a few times, tearing the knees of his trousers. There was a faint but persistent smell of decay. He tried to retrace his way to the exit, but the hallways snarled around him, and several times he could hear Red still laughing. When he passed the dining hall, its tables overflowed with rotting food, and several entertainment rooms were now empty, their curiosities vanished.

The hallways of the pavilion were far too tangled for him to navigate, and he was sure he had strayed deeper into its depths, which seemed far bigger than the building’s outside would have suggested. Was he going in circles? The monsters he passed cackled, some of them pointing at him with sloshing wineglasses, and there was something _wrong_ about them. Stopping to beg for directions would surely put him in peril.

He slowed as he found Mettaton’s room once more, bracing himself to fight the automaton alone. In this labyrinth, he couldn’t dally by searching for Alphys, not when he had wasted so much time in Red’s trap. The door, still locked, fell easily to a frenzy of bones, showing an empty room. No Mettaton, no Bratty and Catty, nothing but scattered cards and a toppled champagne glass. There was no dust to be seen, but still: he had failed them. His sole option was to flee.

All he could remember of his escape was brief flashes of chaotic sensory information. Finally stumbling out of the pavilion after what felt like hours of running, clothes clinging with sweat. The bizarre, beautiful music. The smell of cloth and fur burnt from where monsters danced too close to the flames. The splatter of rotting, fallen fruit underneath his shoes. Faces that didn’t look right, though he tried to skirt the crowd. He had no memory of the carriage ride back and it seemed as if he appeared home instantly. The world shuddered, and then there he was, stumbling into his garden.

Papyrus fell to his knees, vomiting into the grass. It came from him in thick streams of tainted-looking maroon, threaded with black, and now, in between his teeth, he could taste a remainder of sour fruit. Had all of it been fake? The fish swimming in the ponds, the beautiful people, the orchard trees—had all of them been rotted or dead or false? Could he truly believe that Red was the skeleton he claimed to be, after all Papyrus had seen?

What sort of monster held his being in his hands?

He let out a groan, trying to hold himself up, hands planted in the grass. Had he poisoned himself? As he stared down at the mess of rot, he felt a droplet run down his cheekbones and dotting the vomit with bright red. The facepaint, which had remained immaculate through dancing and intimacy and violation, was now pouring off freely. He had a moment to wonder if it was another illusion of that place, before it began to run from his brow down into his eye sockets.

Papyrus doubled over and tried to shield his sockets further, fingers slick with red and gold, but enough had dripped in. His skull burned with it, feeling as if someone was digging a pick inside the bone.

There was a clatter, a door slamming open. Gaster hurtled toward him, a dressing gown pulled over rumpled pajamas, his feet bare. He practically collapsed beside his son, pulling him into a hug that had Papyrus flinching. The sudden motion made him pull away so he could retch again, and it was only through his papa’s careful hold that he didn’t collapse into his own vomit.

“Papyrus, my darling child... What’s going on? Where have you been?”

He made a confused, wordless sound. He must have looked strange, certainly, but not enough for Gaster to react this way. Could he tell what happened from a glance? That couldn’t be possible.

“You’ve been gone for over a week, as have your friends. Where were you? You’ve never done something like this before, and now you’re sick, and your clothes are torn—Papyrus, what _happened_?” He knew he should have answered or at least looked him in the face, but his gaze drifted over his father’s shoulder, mind drifting. When he had left for the park, the day lilies had opened, and the dahlias were blooming nicely. And now they had all withered into browns and grays, stalks with rotting blossoms drooping in the heat. Had it truly been a week?

Gaster swiped a fingertip over Papyrus’s face, looking at the red dripping off of it. “What is this?” Although he seemed loath to leave Papyrus alone, he hurried into the house and returned in mere seconds with a damp cloth and a panicked look, like his son might have vanished again in that short time.

He didn’t have the words to reassure his father, or the energy to do anything but cling. He knew he should have been terrified and glad to be home, but he felt... nothing. Even physical sensations drifted away from him, until he could barely feel the washcloth that was slowly ruined as Gaster ran it over his cheeks, cleaning away the face paint. The stinging of his eye sockets had receded, as if he could only feel it if he was thinking about the paint dripping inside.

When he had been deemed clean enough, Gaster lifted him from the grass, trying to get him steady on his feet. His limbs shook from carrying Papyrus’s weight, but they passed the threshold and into the sitting room without either falling. Ignoring the mess, he settled Papyrus into the closest armchair. It had always been his favorite, to the point that he would playfully fight Bratty for the privilege of lounging on it, but now... Now he settled against its soft cushions and felt no comfort.

It felt as if someone else was being fussed over, some other skeleton being supported over a basin as he poured glass after glass of water into his eye sockets, to let the diluted paint and oil flow out. Some other skeleton who could barely remove his tattered clothing and fainted rather than asking for help with undressing, due to the fluids still dried on him.

No amount of pleading or questioning could drive Papyrus to tell his papa the truth that curdled inside of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camp NaNoWriMo helped me finish up most of this, so it's mostly tweaking things before it's all done.


	3. Autumn

There were no masquerades in autumn, not for Papyrus.

Oh, he certainly _tried_. The first week, his father had been cautiously enthusiastic at the thought of Papyrus getting fresh air, especially after a day of retching out the poison he had unwittingly consumed. That was before he had accompanied him to the park, only to see him hurtle towards the gazebo. He rushed around it as fast as his weak legs would allow, begging under his breath and then audibly, until Gaster pulled him away, startled by such odd behavior. ( _I’m here, I’m here, take me back, I have to return—_ ) The date was wrong, far from the equinox, but he had been so sure someone would come to collect him regardless. No one had.

Even when his mind protested and he became weak with exhaustion, his body would attempt to pull him to the ritual site frequently, no matter the situation. He was a monster possessed.

Since his return in summer, he had tried as best he could to slip back to the park, again and again until the noose of his father’s worry tightened around him. It should have been discomforting not to be trusted, magic laced over the windows so he couldn’t crawl out like some delinquent, his father dragging in a daybed so that he could guard over Papyrus’s dreams, but... he couldn’t feel very much about it. A shadow of annoyance watching him at a distance, but little else.

Red had taken something vital when he had plucked the soul out of Papyrus’s ribcage. His already limited sleep dwindled down to shreds, and an hour of rest that normally would have restored him now left him wilted. He only ate when Gaster prodded him to, and the fine food tasted like he was chewing paper and cotton. His will to cook had abandoned him, and anything with too much flavor reminded him of those feasts he had eaten in summer and spring. Was _all_ of that food rotten underneath a layer of beautiful magic? The mere thought could send him to retching, and Gaster learned quickly to bring him broths and plain bread.

It seemed like all of his needs had been upstaged by one: to return to Red’s side. He tried to believe that it was solely the urge to retrieve his soul, the core of his being drawing him back, but he suspected otherwise. Shamefully, on the rare occasions that he dreamed, it was of Red; whenever he saw a flash of jewelry, he thought of gilded, shining Red. He had cause to hate such a monster, yet the only want he had left was for that skeleton.

As the autumn equinox approached, Red did not come for him. He whispered entreating messages into the shadowy corners while Gaster’s back was turned and scattered flower petals from his window, hoping they might draw his attention. There had been some unnatural magic to him, so maybe one of Papyrus’s shoddy rituals would reach him? He didn’t know what else to do. His strength had drained so completely over those months that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to travel to the gazebo anymore.

Someone else came, however. He was not forbidden from guests—Papa thought kind words and hands might ease his condition, but Papyrus sent away almost all of his ignorant acquaintances and fair weather friends, who fussed over his disappearance and following stupor. None of them could possibly understand, so what did he have to say to them?

The one he wanted to see had since been absent. Bratty’s mothers had been keeping her housebound, as Papyrus was, no doubt attending to a stream of detectives questioning Catty’s disappearance. The whole city knew they were inseparable, so it seemed like a sort of mutilation to see one without the other. A tragedy, for such a bright young woman to vanish and the only witness gone silent with the trauma of it. He had been questioned himself, but his near-catatonic state apparently reeked of innocence, and they had given up on him.

On the day of the equinox, Bratty arrived at his door. He could hear them in the foyer, Gaster inquiring about her health, but he couldn’t hear a response from her. It was impolite to meet her in his bedroom rather than the sitting room, but they lived in strange times, now. Gaster didn’t protest, no doubt remembering the last few times Papyrus had gone downstairs,and made a desperate, mindless lunge for the front door. He hovered for a minute, offering to bring up tea and pastries, but she declined. Papyrus imagined her appetite was as shriveled as his. Soon, Gaster headed downstairs with an air of paternal helplessness.

Bratty sat on the foot of his bed, black silk and lace falling over his blankets—mourning clothes that rendered her nearly unrecognizable. She even had a veil clipped to the brim of her hat. Her form was meant to be bright and elaborate, not like this. Did that mean that Catty had died? Had Bratty been there to see it?

There was still a tiny smear of blue across Bratty’s jaw, like she had not managed the strength to scrub it away over the months they had been stranded here. Or maybe she was wearing it as a reminder of what happened, so she couldn’t rationalize it all as a dream. Papyrus wished he could do so, but the drips of his own paint had withered the grass where he had knelt on his return, and he could see it outside his bedroom window. It must have taken an immense strength of will not to scratch her scales away to be rid of it.

She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I’m going back there, today,” Bratty said, lifting her chin imperiously, like she expected him to argue, to stop her. Had she gotten that reaction from her parents? Had she told them at all? “Catty’s there, and I’m going to save her.”

That was enough to propel him to his feet, leaving his desk chair to collapse at her side and clutch her hands. “She is? She’s alright?”

“Not alright. Alive, last time I saw her, but totally, completely not alright. I don’t know how, or why, but Mettaton took her soul and did _something_ to it. Something awful. We played a game with him, and that was the price for losing.”

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Papyrus said quietly, feeling the weight of his own story between his ribs, where his soul should have been. He didn’t think he could speak it aloud.

She didn’t seem to have the same reluctance, which he hoped was a mercy. She winced as she spoke, but the words seemed to only sting her throat, not shred it entirely. “He wanted to play cards, poker like in some trashy bar. Maybe that’s dumb, since we were wasted, but it didn’t seem like a big deal. We weren’t betting money, or drinks, or anything like that. He said that if he lost the most times out of five, we could have a favor from him, one each. If one of _us_ lost, we’d have to stay with him, and the person in second place got a little punishment. He winked when he said it, so I thought it’d be a sexy thing. Second place gets spanked, last place gets to spend the night.”

She sighed, eyes closing. He could only imagine the guilt she must be feeling. “The thing was, obviously both of us were _trying_ to lose. Of course we wanted to stay with him for the night—we both thought that’s what he meant. We were drunk, and he was winking and flirting and in his underskirts, for fuck’s sake. No _duh_ we thought it was sexy.”

“I’m hardly going to condemn you,” Papyrus said. “That... that is how Red preyed on me, as well. The gist of it, anyway.”

“Oh, _Papy_ ,” Bratty said, squeezing down on his phalanges until they popped. “It was so nice to have all that attention. You get it too, I saw how you looked whenever Red was around. Didn’t think they’d use it against us. We were looking for a faerie tale and we got one, right? Real faeries and everything. It wasn’t supposed to be so messed up. He seemed so charming, you know? Funny and pretty and clever. I didn’t think he’d do something like that.”

“Faeries? You truly believe so?” Such a claim would have seemed laughable, but... The _things_ he had seen... It was decidedly unnatural.

“Yeah. Mettaton said it right out, like it wasn’t a secret at all. ‘This is what happens to mortals who play with the fae,’ he said, after he hurt us. They’re not real monsters.”

It was clear, when she didn’t cry, that she had earned the same affliction as him, and her words soon confirmed it. “Catty was always better at cards, so she was better at being worse. Mettaton won, I was in second, she got last. And... and... he beckoned her over, and she went because of-fucking-course she did, climbing up on his lap. They made out a little bit, enough that we still thought it was sexy times. Her back was to me, covering most of him up, but I saw soul-light, I know that much. Whatever he did to her soul, she fell like she was... fallen down.”

“ _What_?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t just taking her soul, because he did that to me next. Don’t know what it was, but it messed her up real bad. She wouldn’t even move when I shook her. I don’t know what condition she’s gonna be in once I find her.

“I have a plan, though. I ran the first time, but I’m gonna be prepared now.”

She opened her reticule and spilled it out onto his bedspread. Where it had once carried candies and stray earrings and coins, now it held a more violent cargo. There was a tiny engraved pistol, a folding knife, and several wickedly sharp hat pins. She carefully slid the latter into place around the carnation pinned to her hat, an aggressive red against all of the black she wore. She picked up the knife and turned it around in her hands.

“You know,” Bratty said softly. “In the stories, isn’t it metal that hurts them? But that can’t be right. Mettaton, that automaton, he’s a faerie. Obviously it doesn’t do anything to them if he’s walking around with a whole metal body. But a knife is still a knife, so it’s better than nothing. I’d bring some poison too, but... you know.”

“Bratty.... We don’t know what they’re capable of, but they’re clearly powerful. I don’t know if you can do this.” _Don’t leave me as well._

“This might go terrible, you know? I’m not an idiot. I _know_ I’m up against shit I don’t get at all. It's awful, and I hate it, but I'm not just going to leave her. I can't, okay? I wouldn't be able to live with myself." She was right—Bratty without a purring echo behind her wasn’t Bratty at all. “Either I save her, or he takes me too, but we’re not going to be apart. It’s bad enough she had to wait a whole season for me to save her. I tried every day that I could, but I think today’s the only day it’s gonna work.”

“I could come with you,” Papyrus offered, although he had barely strayed from his bedroom or eaten a full meal in days. He didn’t think there was much he could do, but letting her traipse off alone into a trap seemed unconscionable. “I’m sure I could find something to use as a weapon.”

“Nope, not letting you do that,” Bratty said, shaking her head. “It’s bad enough that Catty and Alphys are trapped there, I can’t let—”

“Alphys? This happened to her too?” He tried to imagine back to that brief conversation, how strange she looked in the middle of such revelry. How she had told him to leave.

“Yeah. Alphys never moved away, after all. They _took_ her. She was always a genius, even when we were little kids. That’s what they like, Mettaton said—the smartest or the prettiest or the loudest person at a party, people with the best souls. He pretty much bragged about it. So I guess when she ‘moved away to her aunt,’ she actually was taken by real fucking faeries. If I can, I’m gonna get her out too.”

Although her eyes were bloodshot and bruised underneath, although she had never looked so defeated as she had now, there was something strong to her, some deep well of determination to save the woman she loved.

“Bratty,” Papyrus said, trying to strengthen his voice. “If you can, _tear him apart._ ”

She grinned at that, and for a moment, they were Bratty and Papyrus, not a pair of soulless shells. “You know it.” With steady hands, she begun to repack her supply of weapons. If any of them failed, he knew she would resort to teeth and claws and magic, whatever it took to bring her beloved home.

Bratty embraced him, before she left. Her scales were far colder than he had ever felt, though perhaps the cold was in half due to his own icy bones. They had both left their warmth and softness behind, but they tried to imitate it for each other’s sake. And perhaps when she returned, she would have hers back. He watched through his window, tracking her until her carriage rolled out of sight, heading in the direction of the park.

-

It should have been inconceivable to imagine Bratty failing in her mission, yet three days after the autumn equinox, she had not returned, nor had Catty. The part of him that could be fanciful and naive and optimistic had fled him like everything else. There was no point in believing that Bratty had saved her darling and that they had safely escaped to somewhere the faeries wouldn’t know to follow to; they were both gone, lost to some horrible fate.

A week of rain fell following the equinox, but there was almost no one to track wet footprints into their home. The sympathetic parade that had arrived after Catty’s disappearance had seemingly lost the will to make a second visit, now that Bratty was gone. Did they think he was cursed, and they would vanish too, if they spent time around him? Did they think Papyrus was at fault?

Bratty’s mothers believed the latter, he soon learned. Why was he the only remaining member of their little trio? Why had she visited him before vanishing? Their suspicions led them to eventually storm into the Font household with nary a calling card to proceed them. Although he was upstairs and smothered in quilts where he had permanently set up shop in bed, they were loud enough for him to hear. Soon Gaster’s voice raised to match, in defense of him.

Stomping footsteps growing closer to the staircase, coming to a halt with a wordless shout. Papa must have blocked the stairs with bones or blue magic, something that he knew was far beyond the pale. All manners had fled them in autumn: Bratty’s well-bred mothers were shouting, Gaster had used attack magic against family friends, the sheets Papyrus had pressed his face into had been in need of a wash for _weeks_...

“I know you can hear me,” one of them screamed up through the floorboards. There was a faint crash, like she was displacing her anger at him by sweeping curios from a shelf. “Get off of me, Gaster—I know you know where Bratty went! If you ever loved her, you’d tell us so we can get her back! Are you listening, Papyrus?”

What would they say, if he spun them a tale of lavish parties thrown by thieving faeries? They would deem him mad. Or would they, in their grief, believe him enough to try to enter that world themselves? In keeping his silence, at least they could mourn with their souls intact.

Papyrus pulled a layer of quilts over his skull, hoping to muffle the sounds of Gaster pushing them out of the house, likely with blue magic. Barely half a year ago, they had been always welcome in each other’s homes, but now it had come to threats and force. He expected detectives to arrive once more, but after their failure at finding Catty, it seemed that Bratty’s family had no use for them and their spirals of useless questions. No one came to interrogate Papyrus for a second time.

When he finally ventured downstairs, some of Gaster’s collected fossils were missing from their hallway shelf perches. Were they shattered and consigned to a waste bin? He said nothing of their visitors, patiently blockading the exits with bones as Papyrus’s feet remembered that they wanted to return to the park.

-

With each day, he could feel himself withering, but his father would not allow it. Every day, it was a new variation of broth to entice him, or the windows flung open to let in fresh air once the autumn chill died down, or helping him into the bath so he wouldn’t fall, keeping his head turned for modesty’s sake.

“Papyrus, please, you must eat something. Bratty and Catty would not want you to waste away without them. It would be a disservice to how much they loved you.” Gaster had placed a full tray onto Papyrus’s lap, but he had yet to touch any of it. It wasn’t so much that he worried about vomiting; rather, he looked down at the bowls of broth and rice and could barely perceive them as food at all.

“I barely seasoned it at all, so I’m sure there’s nothing here that could make you ill,” Gaster continued, pleading now. Papyrus couldn’t forgive himself for leaving his father so distressed, but he didn’t know if he had the will to eat. “Perhaps a few spoonfuls? I don’t want to push you too hard, but—”

Silence.

Something was wrong. His papa was rarely ever lost for words, and not for this long. Papyrus looked up from his soup and flinched so violently that some of it sloshed into his lap.

Gaster had frozen in the middle of a word, mouth partially open. His eyelights usually flickered like friendly candles, but they were now completely still. Was he having some sort of strange medical condition?

He wasn’t the only thing that had frozen. The brisk wind outside that sent the shadows of branches across his window, the ticking of the clock, the sound of carriages. All gone.

The only thing had moved was himself and Red, striding out from the corner. The shock of that sent the whole tray falling to the floor, porcelain shattering. Had he _appeared_ there, or had he been waiting for some horrible amount of time, unnoticed? With each step, the room around him grew dimmer, as if Red was absorbing the light into himself, his gilding so bright it stung to look upon.

His smile faltered slightly when he came closer. “Not looking too great there, sweetheart. You’ve really been through the wringer. Kinda was hoping you’d miss your soul so badly you’d jump up and try to fight me for it. A sexy wrestle, maybe.” He had the nerve to wink lasciviously, and Papyrus might have retched had he consumed anything but water since the day before. “I heard you calling, but I didn’t think it’d be this bad. Sorry ‘bout that.” He clutched several autumn daisies in his hand, and when Papyrus didn’t take them, Red scattered them across the bed.

How dare he attempt remorse for the very deterioration he had caused! “If you’ve come to mock me for it, you’ve seen enough, so you may leave. I’ve nothing left to entertain you with.” He wanted to scream it. He wanted his words to emerge as brambles, glass shards, hail. Yet his voice sounded so frail, the only defense he had left. What if Red hurt him further, or turned his sights to Gaster?

“Aw, don’t be like that. I’m here to help, not being a dick about it. Might’ve fucked up, but I still want the best for you. I’ve never kept anybody before, so I thought this would work.”

“If you were acting ‘for the best,’ you would return my soul and never speak to me again.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I think you’re in this for the long haul. But here, I’ll tell you what.” Red unbuttoned his waistcoat, and Papyrus shrunk back against the headboard, wondering if he was about to be violated once more. He opened his shirt but removed nothing else. He reached into his golden ribcage, where the withered form of Papyrus’s soul hovered. It looked nearly translucent, a hint of Red’s ribs stretching out behind it.

He took a mocking care in retrieving it from the shell of his body, holding it out. Papyrus lifted an arm without thought, intending to touch if Red would allow it. To be sure it was his own soul and not some prop stolen from another unfortunate monster. Could it truly be his, when he could sense nothing from it? But his arm fell back to the blankets, too weak to raise for long.

“Yeah, gotta admit this maybe wasn’t one of my better ideas. Desperation’s hot and all, but a person like you shouldn’t ever be this _weak_. Kinda why I picked you, actually. So here, have some back.” And without any sort of reverence or ceremony, Red tore his soul into two.

The scream he let out should have stirred his father into action, as well as anyone on the street, but the void Red held them in was seemingly impenetrable. Ignoring his writhing, Red placed the tattered piece into his shaking fingers, fingers he expected to dust at any minute. It was only a small shred of the point, but after months of feeling nothing but exhaustion, the pain it brought with it was all consuming.

And yet, the pain faded far more quickly than he could have expected. With only such a small part of his soul returned, that was all the capacity for pain that he apparently had.

“Yeah, that’s probably enough. I missed you, you know? I thought skipping a season would really get us both going with anticipation and all, but it mostly sucked. And I can’t have you too weak to come back in winter. C’mon, get up, I wanna see if this is enough for you to walk. Kinda the bare minimum.”

Papyrus stared up in disbelief. He was shaking with fear and malnutrition, but Red wanted him to parade around the room? It was absurd.

His defiance earned him a snicker. “Gonna be like that? You’re lucky I think it’s cute, not annoying, that you’re trying to fight back. But...” And his voice got deeper, smoother, slower. “ _Stand up and walk around, Papyrus_.”

He untangled himself from the blankets with a frenzy that drained what little energy he had, and his first attempt to rise had him collapsing back onto the bed. The dizziness was gone in seconds, however, and he heaved himself up to circle around the room once, twice, many times under a faerie’s disconcerting watch. It was a slow trek, but he was walking more than he had in weeks. Something about Red’s voice _forced_ him to do so, regardless of his initial refusal. That same voice had sent him fleeing in summer. Was there any limit to what Red could force him to do?

If Red could control him so easily, why did he bother playing this horrible game?

It earned him a round of applause. “Seems good enough to me. That can probably get you through the ritual, though you might wanna take a carriage there, save some energy. You’ll need it for the actual party.”

“And why, exactly, do you expect me to return in the winter after what you’ve done to me?” Although his legs had begun to quiver, he completed his circle and came to stand in between Red and his father. “I can’t imagine wanting something less.”

“You really think you can lie to me when I’m holding this?” Red waved the remainder of Papyrus’s soul, sending a dizzy wave through him. “Almost no one manages to stay away for that long. And if you don’t come back, you can’t try and steal your soul. Or see me, which is probably the bigger draw, don’t play hard to get. And solstice is a big deal. Not that you have a bad place, and I hate to make you wait longer, but I can’t do things here. It’s gotta be at the party.”

He took Papyrus’s limp hand, still cradling his soul fragment between sweating palms, and kissed his knuckles gently. “If you’re really having a hard time, call out for me. I might give you another bit of soul to keep you going. If not, I’ll see you at winter solstice.”

Before Papyrus could curse his name or beg him to stay, he stepped back into the shadows of the corner. They seemed to fold around him, and then he was gone.

Did Red truly believe Papyrus would become so desperate that he would beg for his soul to be shredded and given to him in crumbs? ...Did he believe he could last until winter without having to do so? As much as he wanted to deny it, he wasn’t sure he could survive past winter and into a new year, not like this.

Gaster had begun to stir, as if emerging from an unexpected nap, and Papyrus stumbled back into bed. There wasn’t enough time to rearrange the blankets as they were, and the tray was a lost cause, but he brushed the flowers under the sheets as quickly as he could. (Far later, he would wobble back to bed and find it littered with rotted petals.)

“You drifted off for a second, Papa,” Papyrus said, hoping it would sound believable. “I tried to move the tray to the nightstand, but it was too heavy.”

Gaster rose to his feet with a sigh, moving to crouch on the carpet and begin to gather shards of broken crockery, stacking them on the tray. He looked so defeated.

With his regained wisp of strength, Papyrus leaned down to retrieve the silverware that had scattered across the floor. The movements did make him dizzy, and he soon had to sit on the floor so he could regain his breath, but it was more movement than he had made in days. His papa was looking at him in undisguised amazement, and he found he wanted more of that.

He reached over and put his hand on Gaster’s, halting it from where it was scooping up spilled rice. “Is there more in the kitchen? I’m starting to feel a little hungry after all, but I’d need your help with the stairs.” The smile he received was reward enough, but he had a greater motive in mind.

He needed to build up his strength for winter, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired okay, the ao3 page was blurring in and out while I set up this chapter.
> 
> Only one chapter to go!


	4. Winter

“Oh, this is _lovely_ ,” Gaster said, scanning the small shop. “I’m surprised I’ve overlooked it for so long.”

Once Papyrus had decided to return, the physical compulsion eased. His mind still raced with thoughts of going back, but he could venture outside without trying to sprint for the park. After a few weeks of accompanying his father to cafes and restaurants despite the immense exhaustion it brought on, Papyrus had “coincidentally” led him to a tiny shop selling blown glass. As his father flitted over to the kiln section, peppering the amused artisans with questions, Papyrus scanned the shelves.

There was no room for mistakes concerning the winter solstice, and he would be carrying a flower with him, as he had those previous times. He simply did not have the energy to dash around to a flower shop if he was rejected for lacking a bloom, and his mission would be over before it started.

Yet, after he had toured the florist shop nearest to his home, something about it had felt wrong, almost inappropriate. There was an unclean quality to him now, as if any petal or stem he touched would discolor and rot underneath his fingers. Perhaps it was overly dramatic, but he felt that the part of him that had loved and deserved to touch flowers was now gone.

Papyrus made a point of skimming the glass works on display, little castles and monsters. Though he was on the other side of the room, Papyrus could see him glancing over, continually gauging his well-being. An air of cautious interest would serve him well. After examining rows of sculptures he had no interest in, he finally settled on a row of glass-blown flowers. These would surely meet the floral requirement, and they were far less fragile, perhaps immune to the filth and emptiness inside of him. Perhaps the faeries, or at least Red, would find it _amusing_ that in less than the span of a year he had gone from soft blooms to beautiful but cold glass.

Passing over rows of daffodils and roses, Papyrus plucked a glass calla lily from a vase holding several. It had a delicate white bloom and a small stem, so it wouldn’t be ungainly to pin to his hat. And something in its simplicity appealed to him.

“Oh, would you like one of those?” Gaster asked, walking up behind him, and luckily Papyrus was too drained to flinch. “Let’s get a vase for it as well, they sell them over there.” He nodded along, although he wasn’t sure he could keep the lily after using it for its intended purpose. Could he truly withstand seeing it inside his bedroom each day, remembering the solstice it had marked? Perhaps he would have to claim it lost, or knocked over and broken by the dog, some reason to no longer own it.

But for now, the flower was one completed piece of preparation, cold and reassuring against his fingers.

-

It made him uncomfortable to ponder how easily his father could be manipulated. Papyrus had been careful to slowly “improve” without seeming overeager. Wan smiles, eating what he could without retching, sitting in the parlor rather than in his bed. The addition of outings, however brief, convinced Gaster that he was grieving in a healthier way.

His Papa’s devoted attention grew lax. He returned to his studies and experiments, first with his workshop door open, often straying out to check on Papyrus. Then, the door remained closed for longer stretches of time, no doubt Gaster’s attempt to leave Papyrus the privacy to weep and reread the correspondence from his lost friends, or some other appropriately sorrowful activity.

And, as the first snows came to the city, Gaster began to venture from their home once again. He had always touted the advantages of collaboration between scientists, and this was the longest span in which he had spoken to none of his colleagues. There was a pile of unopened letters on his writing desk attesting to that. Since the tragedy of summer, he had not attended or given any lectures, or helped to proofread an article to be published, or gossiped about someone’s inadequate sample size while dripping tea all over the notes he brought to share.

After a few subtle comments about how Papyrus felt so _guilty_ keeping Gaster away from his friends and colleagues, he began to book appointments and visits. Orchestrating an event on the solstice itself was less subtle, but he reminded his father in a choked voice that he would be alright if his father wanted to go to the final university lectures of the year, on the last days before students would have Gyftmas and the New Year free, before the new semester. He had been a frequent attendant for years and often as a lecturer himself.

Soon, with Papyrus’s insistent approval, he applied and was selected to give a lecture on the solstice. There was always a party held after, to ease the stress of taking or grading exams. Gaster assured him he would not stay long, only for a few pastries and brief conversations, but it would allow Papyrus a little more time for his own mission.

After reassuring him that he would be fine, dozens of times, Gaster finally shuffled his bird’s nest of lecture notes into order, kissed him on the forehead, and turned his collar up against the wind as he climbed into a carriage. For all his worrying, his step was lighter and his expression less burdened than it had been in months.

It left time for Papyrus to begin his own plan, but the first step felt the most daunting.

He guided the tiny, brutalized shard of soul from his rib cage. With it so damaged, he didn’t want to touch it directly, sure that it would kill him outright.

It gave off no light at all, more like a grim piece of iron. He had avoided looking at it in the past few months, unable to tolerate seeing his core so small and jagged. But now, it was all he had.

“Please,” he whispered into the cage of his hands, hoping the force of his breath wouldn’t harm it. “I suppose there isn’t much strength and willpower left in you, but I need all I can muster. Please, my dear soul, carry me through this solstice and I will restore you. I promise this.” He didn’t know _how—_ perhaps he would live the rest of his life with two pieces of soul floating in him? With that amount of damage, it was foolish to believe they would fuse back into one. Regardless, however he had them, it would be an improvement.

Perhaps he was imagining a reaction, but it seemed to glitter at his words, very slightly, and when he moved to stand, rising to his feet did not exhaust him as much as it had. Would that give him enough strength?

It had to, because he had only the one chance. He had laid out his outfit on the bed, complete with the wicked-looking knife he intended to carry and the glass lily with which he would adorn himself. A flurry of snow was falling, and he needed to reach the park before it intensified and the streets cleared of carriage drivers.

His hands were far steadier than they had been in months, as he dressed himself in what felt like his armor. He wished he _had_ armor, but the embrace of formal wear was a relief after months of grubby bedclothes and shirtsleeves. His bones were freshly scrubbed, and although he didn’t feel like his normal self, his appearance was far improved, indefinably ill but not _wretched_. He wore an unseasonal black ensemble for his own mourning, for his friends and for all the others who may have fallen into similar traps.

For days, he had considered the merits and flaws in leaving a note for his father, in case either of them had misjudged the time their tasks required. But how to explain where he was, without sounding insane? After some deliberation, he jotted down that he was attending a short event, and if he wasn’t home when Gaster arrived, he should come to the park to look for him. Not nearly enough information to draw Gaster into danger, but if Papyrus didn’t have the energy to return home, he could have some welcome assistance.

The carriage driver looked at him oddly for venturing out in such weather, but they didn’t complain with the sizable tip he offered alongside the normal fee.

The wind chewed away at his bones as he made his way into the park, the only visitor to be seen. Icicles dangled from the roof of the gazebo, and he stood out of their range as he circled around, in case any fell and hit him. The monster who came to retrieve him was buried in a thick cloak, hood pulled down too far to see their face. Was there pity there, in the way they held his hand so he wouldn’t slip on the carriage steps?

When he stepped from the carriage, Papyrus had to wonder if he had been lured into some sort of trap. He stood on the winding path to an enormous mansion, but he saw no other guests arriving. If not for the lights in the windows, he would have assumed that the driver had brought him to a second, abandoned location where Red could prey on him without audience or interference.

The mansion before him glimmered with frost, but that was the extent of its glamour. It must have been beautiful a few decades ago, but there was an air of neglect to it now. The gardens were overgrown where they weren’t half-dead, from what he could see, and ivy crowded the walls, overtaking a few lower windows. The stairs he ascended were cracked and stained. Gathering himself, he pushed the doors open and strode into the fray.

What the setting lacked, the crowd provided in spades. Jeweled shoes danced over rotting floorboards, and the silk and lace distracted from moth-gnawed curtains and tattered rugs. With every head that turned his way, something inside him quailed.

As in spring, the monsters around him wore masks, now lined with thick fur or shining like ice. And yet, looking upon them made his limbs shiver and his skull ache fiercely. All of the glamours they wove, on themselves and their surroundings, were gone, and he was left with a dingy and painful truth.

If asked, he would have struggled to explain why they were so frightening. The tangible things—far too many teeth to possibly fit in a mouth, faceted pupils like jewels, proportions like ill-made statues—were disorienting, but surely they were not the full cause of the terror he felt.

Perhaps it was because every faerie seemed to recognize him. He was far from the only mortal in attendance, but the rest were enthralled, mouths agape at some spectacle he couldn’t see, or laughing as they were whirled into a dance. Eyes clung to him, and whispers passed behind fans and wine glasses as he navigated the crowd. Someone could slip away and tell Red of his arrival. Someone likely had.

As brave as it might have been to stride in bare-faced, concealing his face could help him catch Red unawares. The mask he had received so many months ago didn’t cover the bottom of his skull, and there were only so many skeletons to be found, but it was some measure of camouflage.

He saw a trace of mint scales and whirled around. Was that Bratty’s snout disappearing behind a group of monsters? Had she survived, now trapped in these seasonal bacchanals? He scanned the room wildly, looking for a swishing lavender tail or bright gold curls.

There! Papyrus saw a twitching cat ear over another monster’s shoulder and began to shove forward. Catty had been all but fallen down, last he had seen her, so he could take some hope in the thought that she could now stand and walk by herself. Maybe he was the extra help the two of them needed to free themselves from this nightmare. He saw no trace of metal yet, but he couldn’t assume that Bratty had defeated...it? Him? He had no way of knowing if Mettaton was attending the winter dance or not, so he needed to be on his guard.

Shouldering past a few monsters, he reached out to where he thought he saw a hint of Catty’s quiff... And stumbled into Alphys. By the time they had righted themselves, Catty—if it had been her at all—had vanished.

It hurt to look upon Alphys, and his sockets watered with the effort. He had assumed she was a captive, but she must have been a faerie as well. No amount of glitter could possibly make her scales shine that brightly, as if they were coated in sunlight. Strange patterns swirled within them, and looking too closely sent spikes of pain through his temples. How could someone be turned into one? Had she been some sort of changeling?

“Papyrus! What—why are you _here_?” She looked.... concerned, which he didn’t expect. Perhaps not all faeries wanted to steal away monsters? “I thought maybe you were one of the few people who could escape getting thralled. Most people can’t even make it to one season. Why would you ever come back?” Her hands fluttered, just shy of touching him, and that seemed to be for the best, considering how sharp her claws now appeared. The illusion she had carried in summer had smoothed her appearance into something harmless, but she could easily do harm to him.

Yet, as she gaped at him, she did not harm him, or raise an alarm among her fellow faeries. It would have ended in an instant, had she called Mettaton to her side, but he could see no malice in her, only anxiety. It was possible she was the closest to an ally that he had in this place. “I’m here to retrieve my soul and save Bratty and Catty. Red has the former, but I can’t find the latter. Please, help me find them.”

“ _What_? Papyrus, if you still can, run away and never come back here, soul or not. Bratty and Catty are too far gone, s-so you shouldn’t join them. It’s not worth it, you need to—”

“Thanks, Al, wasn’t looking forward to searching the whole crowd for this guy.” Alphys jumped visibly as Red slipped out from behind her. He patted her on the shoulder, unconcerned by the tears that welled up in her eyes. “Good on you for making more friends, too; you guys can have a playdate when I’m done with him.”

She backed up a step, stepping into a table and sending several champagne glasses shattering to the floor. “Papyrus, I—I’m so sorry, I—” Now freely crying tears that gleamed like prisms, she fled, tripping on the hem of her dress and tearing it as she went.

“Don’t hold it against her,” Red purred, and his voice sounded like he was speaking right next to Papyrus’s skull, though logically he couldn’t reach. “Al’s a sweetheart, but she can’t stop me from getting you. Plus I like her, so she’s better off not fighting me.”

Papyrus spun around and, before he could debate the wisdom of it, punched Red in the right eye socket.

His father had always taught him that gentlemen fought with words, not blows. And he knew he would have a better chance, however slightly, with the knife he had brought. Against all reason, however, Papyrus wanted to feel bone break under his fist, and the eye socket was delicate enough to give him that chance.

Although it sent a thin crack through his own knuckles, the damage to Red was well worth it. Suddenly, all of Catty’s insistent lessons on how to punch properly, as to not jar the wrist or break one’s thumb, were finally having some use. As Red felt at his eye socket, probing at the damage with a mild and unpained expression, Papyrus fumbled for the knife, snapping it open.

When he had initially imagined this confrontation, he had thought it would occur in some empty hallway, not surrounded by other faeries. Would someone attempt to wrestle the knife away? Holding it with his damaged hand stung fiercely, but he doubted he could hold onto it or land a worthwhile blow with his non-dominant hand.

It seemed that a brawl was a new and exciting event, and although the crowd clustered around himself and Red, bodies pressed together too tightly to push through and retreat, no one attempted to stop him. A few even cheered and clapped. He saw a glimpse of a mortal monster being hastily led away, and he imagined that’d be the case for all of them. It would shatter the fantasy, and no amount of illusion could hide away the sound or sight of bone striking against bone.

Red straightened up, wiping a thin stream of red magic from his face. “Glad you got your spirit back, darling. Not that it’ll do much, but I’d be pretty disappointed if you gave up.” There was a ripple of distorted, too-loud laughter, and he gripped the knife until his hand throbbed with the effort. Could he truly bring himself to cut down another monster? And if he attacked too vigorously or, stars forbid, killed Red, would Papyrus’s soul be harmed inside of him?

If he _didn’t_ attack, would his soul be destroyed all the same?

As Red reached out for him, Papyrus slashed at the approaching hand—he had nowhere to retreat, so he needed to maintain his own space for as long as he could. He seemed completely unaffected by the gashes Papyrus left across his fingers, flicking drops of magic to the floor. The crack in his skull didn’t slow him down either. Was Red impervious to pain?

“You know why I’m here, Red.” His voice trembled shamefully, unsure of how to defeat a being who could shrug off such injuries.

“You want your soul back, I know.” Red licked more spilled magic from his fingers, leering at him. The crowd tittered at the introduction of souls, and he tensed, more aware of them than ever. If he could wrest his soul from Red, dozens of other faeries were close enough to snatch it away. He had a horrid mental image of them battling over it until it was left in shreds. “How d’ya plan on doing that, by the way? Y’know, if you managed to get out of here, I know where you live and all.”

“By whatever means necessary,” Papyrus said, trying to put all his bravery into the words although Red’s words horrified him. When he escaped here, would he and his father need to uproot to somewhere no faerie would find them? He had been so focused on this battle that he hadn’t concerned what would come after.

“Mm, this isn’t the best place for this.” Already some were fussing about the loss of their entertainment, but he ignored them. “Let’s get somewhere private, you and me,” Red said, snatching up Papyrus’s wrist, the one holding the knife. He began to thrash, hoping to free himself, but it was like he was fighting against a great stone pillar. With one powerful yank, Papyrus was pulled forward, and—and—

Red didn’t seem at all bothered by his retching, still holding onto him as he doubled over and coughed up a thin, muddy red stream of magic. Looking at his surroundings made him vomit once more. How had they gotten there? How had they crossed the crowded ballroom, surrounded by immovable watchers, into an empty hallway in only a few moments? It left them beside an open door that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and Red pushed him across the threshold.

Papyrus fought like some sort of creature, and though he could hear Red’s clothing tearing under his knife and metal scraping bone, there was no indication that Red was impeded in any way. He slapped it out of Papyrus’s hand, spinning along the floor, and shut the door behind them, leaving them in a darkness far deeper than he had ever seen.

The door had been within arm’s reach, however. He hadn’t heard any locks, so it would be trivial to exit. Of course, he’d have to evade Red, but he would be out of this horrible place, where he couldn’t see himself or the floor ahead of him. It wouldn’t be so difficult to find if he kept his hand at waist height.... but as he swept his fingers along, he felt no protrusions. Had he been turned around in some way?

There should have been a slice of light underneath the door, but it had sealed so firmly that no light leaked through. The sun could have collapsed in on itself, and he would never know. He scrabbled for a doorknob or a seam, raking his phalanges against the wall until he could feel bits chipping off of him. And if he couldn’t find the doorknob, then his knife was all but lost. Did the door still _exist_?

Red let him search uselessly for nearly a minute before he took his arm and began dragging him further into the room. Thrashing and clawing and tossing around bones did nothing to free himself, nor did dragging his heels, or trying to pull Red down to the floor with his weight. Even when Red’s bones audibly cracked under Papyrus’s attack, it didn’t slow him. Red kept drawing him along, and if anything Papyrus did was painful or inconvenient to him, he didn’t show it. He seemed to have no difficulty seeing, or at least he stepped confidently enough to appear so.

More and more, it started to feel as if he wasn’t in the manor any longer, transported to some bizarre new location. Was that within Red’s abilities? He had appeared in Papyrus’s bedroom with ease, and there must have been some sort of magic necessary to bring them to this room so easily. They walked long enough that it must have been some sort of ballroom or lavish dining hall, or perhaps a corridor. It had to be, to walk in a straight line for minutes unimpeded. He began to stumble, his energy drained by his useless attacks.

The air around them was growing colder, and he could almost imagine they were outside, perhaps in the depths of some dense forest, treetops concealing the sky. If not for the smooth floor underneath him, he might have believed it. A mind wasn’t meant for this kind of void, and his was beginning to waver. Was Papyrus imagining a third set of footsteps, sounding a second after Red’s? If there was someone else, how could he truly know, as long as they moved subtly?

The shift from absolute darkness to merely _very_ dark almost brought Papyrus to tears. If he held his hands close to his face, he could see a blur of metacarpals, and he clung to the sight of it. He couldn’t see much else, but he could sense movement as Red let go of him to kneel down on the floor. Papyrus shifted his weight, unsure of whether to flee, and Red noticed immediately. “Wouldn’t try that if I were you. You know I could catch you no problem, and it’d be pretty annoying if you did run.”

Papyrus couldn’t see what Red was doing, down there on the floor, but he could hear the scrape of bone against tile. Whatever it was gave him a confused sense of dread. And why was the temperature dropping so quickly? The sight of his own breath was pleasant in a way, as it gave him something else to look at, but he had begun to shiver. “Why are you doing this?” Papyrus asked, the chattering of his teeth distorting his words.

“Because you’re the brightest person I’ve ever seen? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone I wanted more than you. And... you ate the food, bud. You were ours from the first night. You were _mine_. Now we can make it real.”

Papyrus took an unsteady step backwards, only to hear tile cracking as bones thrust through, inches from his heels. A warning that Red would not aim so carefully if he attempted to run.

“D’you know what faeries do with souls?” At those words, Papyrus’s wounded, stolen soul began to shine through Red’s clothing. The fragment he carried, on the other hand, was too weak to let off any light, though it twitched uncomfortably. In that dim light, Red looked demented, covered in wounds and smiling brilliantly. “A lot of them take those souls, hide ‘em away. Kinda boring, in my opinion. We can turn mortal monsters into servants like that, but why bother? Plus if you don’t hide it well enough, sometimes they get it back and run away, and it’s all a huge shitshow. I’ve never been into that, and I like you too much to have you carry drinks for an eternity.

“What _I’m_ really into is the less common option. See, most mortal monsters don’t deserve it. Alive for like five minutes, then dust, and what do they do with it? Living boring little lives with boring personalities, and then it’s over. But someone like you... You’re way too bright not to live forever. You _deserve_ to live forever, and I can make it happen.”

“You’re insane,” Papyrus breathed. Bizarre magic or not, this was far too much to believe.

With the extra light given by his soul, Papyrus watched mutely as Red dug his fingers into the wounds Papyrus had left him. “Aw, don’t act so scandalized. Usually I don’t go the whole nine yards, but this sort of thing needs a proper ritual.” With the magic running down his hand, he began to draw something, though it was too dim to see the pattern. It was clearly intricate, however, from the way he widened several different cuts to better supply his drawing.

A touch lit on his shoulder, and Papyrus imagined he could feel frost spreading out of it, seeping through fabric and down to the bone inside. He couldn’t turn, as if he had become a statue of a skeleton. Red sat back on his haunches, grinned wildly, and said “Hey, Dad.”

Papyrus refused to look behind him, as Red pulled him to the floor. There was a numbness spreading down from his shoulder, and even the parts of him he could feel, he did not move. Some childish instinct of hiding one’s face under the blankets, sure that no horror would see him if he did not see it.

Red clearly didn’t approve. “C’mon, you’re gonna make him all self-conscious. You’re gonna start seeing a lot of him soon, so you gotta get used to it. Now _look_.” Red took his mandible in between his hands, forcing Papyrus’s head to turn. Trying to struggle made him feel as if he’d snap his spine in two, and there was no choice but to look.

For a blissful moment, he couldn’t perceive anything but the darkness that he had yet to become accustomed to, if he ever would. His mind still had some measure of innocence, though Red had bruised and fouled it.

Yet, when something in that dark _shifted_ , like a pool of ink, Papyrus began to see a figure within it. There weren’t discernible limbs, and it towered over the two of them, doubly so now that they were on the floor. For all he knew, that shape could have been some sort of obelisk or statue, but he had the feeling he was being walked. Assessed.

White masses began to push out of that amorphous black, painful to look at in their brightness. Slowly, they began to unfold, revealing themselves as strange, spindly hands. Nine emerged in total, moving in a strange, dizzying pattern around its “body.” He was so horribly entranced by their spirals that at first he didn’t notice three of them raising up.

They began to contort, fingers moving and bending strangely, like a version of cat’s cradle without string, in which breaking one’s fingers was an expected maneuver. It was a wonder he didn’t vomit at the sight, though he tasted acidic magic.

It was a child’s scribble of a face, molded by fingers: two gaps that could have been lopsided eyes, a longer one for a “mouth.” Why, then, did Papyrus feel like he was being _watched_ by those makeshift eyes? Why did he feel like it was leering at him, its fake grin widening? It should have been comically surreal, but instead, he had begun to shiver, despite his overwhelming desire to stay silent and still, as if it hadn’t noticed him already.

As it watched him, with such intensity that it almost felt like his bones were being sliced open to show the marrow inside, its body began to change. Or, perhaps, it had been that way all along and he had been too hypnotized by its hands? Though he didn’t _want_ to look into that shifting black, glimmering spots of white began to form within it, drawing his gaze forcefully. They seemed to shift almost imperceptibly across its form, like clouds inching their way along.

“Beautiful, right?” Red’s voice, so close to his skull, made him startle with a clatter, and if he had any hopes that he had somehow escaped its notice, they were thoroughly dashed. He had been so absorbed in staring at this... this _being_ that he had forgotten Red’s presence completely.

“What _is_ that?” Papyrus asked, and for a moment he reached to clutch at Red’s jacket, as if he was still the innocent skeleton of summer who believed this monster would protect him. Could faeries really look like that? Or was this something more sinister and strange?

“He’s.... mmm...” Red’s fingers tapped at his jaw, apparently trying to find adequate words for it. “Let’s just say he’s my patron and dad? And he’ll be yours too. He’s kinda a bigshot around here, even to the Queen and King of this Court. They give him tithes and shit. ‘S how he got me in the first place.”

The shining spots were stars, Papyrus realized, though the thought was so hysteric that it couldn’t be true, could it? It had been months since he had bothered looking at the night sky; the romantic part of him, who memorized constellations and earnestly tracked comet patterns, had been torn away. Had this creature stolen the stars from space? Was it space itself? He couldn’t help the low moan that escaped his mouth. How could such a thing stand in a room, almost shaped like a person? _Why was it looking at him?_

“We’re gonna be a big happy family soon enough, so I can’t have you screaming and passing out every time Dad comes around.” He hoped, in vain, that the cold of the room would frost over his eye sockets and free him from having to look, but his sight remained painfully clear, as Red held him there. Did he recognize any of those stars as constellations? Were they entirely new ones that he had never seen before? His cheekbones were slick with tears.

At last, Red showed him some measure of mercy, shoving him down onto his back. It was impossible to fight back—he could barely feel his body, let alone move. His gaze rested on the dark ceiling, taking comfort in how static it looked. That being was still there, but if he didn’t look... Red climbed onto him, straddling his hips. With immense gentleness, he wiped away Papyrus’s tears and licked them from his fingers.

“So,” Red began, in a conversational tone. “Here’s how it’s gonna be. There’s two parts to this. First off, Dad gets an offering, and then you and I can finish what we started.” He plucked the glass lily from Papyrus’s hat and twirled the short stem between his fingers. “Yeah, think this’ll do.”

He held it up in the air, and one of those awful hands drifted over. Papyrus turned his face towards the ground so he wouldn’t see it taking the flower. In a way, that had been his father’s last gift, and he could hear the hand clenching down on the glass. There was a horrifying scraping noise, and then what Papyrus could only describe as cacophonous _chewing_. And yet, it had no teeth, no mouth. Papyrus hoped with all of his being that it was crushing his lily with its hand, not “eating” it. A few shards fell with tiny clinks, but the rest was apparently gone. Rationally, it likely tucked the remaining pieces away, but the terror in him insisted that they had been _swallowed_.

But then it approached, once the sounds of breaking glass tapered off. In his peripheral, he could see those hands rotating faster now, as the black mass of its body inched forward. He had regained enough physical control to squirm, but Red’s body held him down firmly, too heavy for such a slight skeleton.

“Settle down already. This offering’s a two parter, and we can’t skip this bit.” But he was smiling as he said it. “Gotta check out the merch before you buy it, you know?”

The being knelt down beside him, if it had knees at all. The tile around it froze over, and he could now see his gasping breaths. As it leaned over him, “face” looking down, a hand reached for him. It had the suggestions of phalanges and metacarpals, but in a way that resembled a sculpture by someone with only a cursory understanding of skeletal anatomy.

With the most delicate touch, those fingers ghosted up from the edge of his eye socket. And his skull cracked open.

He could hear, under his screaming, a calm refrain from Red interspersed with shushing. “It gets easier, I promise. Dad doesn’t know his own strength sometimes, but he fixes it every time. Now that you’re gonna be his kid too, he’ll heal you up.” Red lifted Papyrus’s hand up, as it shook violently, and touched his fingers to the patches of gold on Red’s cheek. “We’ll match, bro.”

As that hand began to descend again, Papyrus fully believed that this touch would crack his skull in two, the force of it disintegrating his spine as it traveled through him. If this was the amount of damage caused by a supposedly affectionate stroke, then a slap would no doubt kill him instantly.

It didn’t touch him, the second time. He could feel the air shifting above his scalding fracture, as it stroked as close as it could without making actual contact. With it came a liquid sensation, worming into the crack in his skull. With Red holding onto him, telling him to “let it set, only takes a minute,” he couldn’t squirm away or turn his head to let the substance, whatever it was, drip back out.

“Nice. You look like part of the family now.” Red fumbled through his pockets before finally extracting a small mirror. “This was how you were meant to be look, honestly.” Above his eye socket, two parallel cracks now gleamed with gold.

He remembered, with no small amount of horror, how much of Red had been gilded: not only his face, but under his clothing, down to his most delicate places. Whatever it was, it could cause damage that Red’s body couldn’t heal and filled it in with gold as some bizarre apology. How many fractures and breaks had he endured from his supposed father? Would Papyrus soon earn the same treatment?

What sort of father was this, to do that to its child?

“The last part is to do with this,” Red said, brandishing Papyrus’s soul. While he was transfixed by the sight of it, Red’s other hand, terrible and clever, slipped past his waistcoat and shirt, snatching up the remaining fragment inside his ribs.

Papyrus was certainly going to die here, and he could only think of his own father. He had been gone for an hour, perhaps two, but soon his Papa would return from his lecture and find an empty house. He would never know where his only son had vanished, would never be able to hold a proper funeral without any dust to spread. His note would be useless, even taunting. Would he search the park, the only clue Papyrus had left him, looking for dust in snow? Did the small possibility of retrieving his soul truly outweigh the panic and grief to which he was resigning his father?

“This part sucks a little at first, but it’s how this works,” Red said, in a voice that was so close to reassuring. “Someone who gets their soul taken away is a toy for someone to play with, or a servant, but you’re too good for that. If I eat your soul, that’s what makes you like me. You’ll live forever, as beautiful and strong as you are now. More than that, probably.” And, with a glance up at the indistinct form of his father: “If _he_ eats your soul, it doesn’t come out so well. Tried that before, and it was a fucking mess. So trust me, it’s gotta be me, and it’s gonna be great. Just be patient ‘til it’s done.”

Was that what happened to Catty? And Bratty, most likely? How could a monster possibly survive such a thing? Why did Red—

Red bit down and _tore._ Like a beast over a carcass, like a child ripping a sheet of paper in two. Papyrus could only feel the motions of his chewing for the span of a panicked breath, before it hissed into dust that Red eagerly swallowed down. “You’re delicious,” Red moaned, and then he was on to the other half, devouring it like a monster starved. The only mercy in the second mouthful was that his ability to feel pain was rapidly diminishing. Was he going into shock? Were his senses fading as death approached?

As Red rubbed the last tiny piece of soul between two fingers, Papyrus refused to look, pressing one eye socket into the cold marble. Red’s nonsense about living soullessly forever must have been some sort of possessive madness, and he was surely about to collapse into dust. His last sight should be the dark, not Red’s leering face or the abomination that he called a ‘father.’

The last part he didn’t feel at all, to the point that he wondered if Red was mocking him, drawing out the moment. His breath had been so loud with panic that he couldn’t hear the tiny hiss of that soul shred falling to dust. There was a seep of warmth between them, from where Red straddled him. Somehow, merely from the act of destroying Papyrus, Red had orgasmed.

As Red leaned down over Papyrus, hands planted on either side of his skull, ribcage heaving, Papyrus felt himself slide into a shifting dark ocean. It must have been him dying, though it was oddly delayed. His torment was finally ending...

The ocean that consumed his was thick and darker than water, its waves studded with stars floating around him.

-

They were in a different room entirely, when he woke. It was tempting to believe, as he stared at the shimmering canopy around the bed where he lay, that it had been some terrible nightmare. The feeling within his chest cavity neatly disproved any reassuring lies he might have told himself.

It didn’t feel cold, or empty, or painful, nothing so unpleasant. Rather, the place where his soul had belonged now felt strong and...crystallized, in a way. Papyrus scanned the room before he removed the unfamiliar nightshirt he wore. Was it a trick of the light, or did the inside of his ribs glimmer? Were they no longer bone? When he tapped on a rib, it chimed rather than clattered.

Before he could examine himself further, the door opened and Red swanned in. There was no point in redressing himself in a panic, when he had seen all of it before, or in running, when surely Red would drag him back.

The terror and rage at seeing him were curiously absent. He felt... quiet.

His face lit up the moment he saw Papyrus. “Finally awake, huh? Obviously a masterpiece takes time and all to finish, but I was getting bored waiting for the final product.”

“How long was it?” Did his voice sound different, or was that a consequence of sleeping for so long? Perhaps he had been out for a day, which was all but unheard of for him. Red climbed onto the bed, crawling up to his side. His bones seemed to glitter with stardust, similar to the change in Papyrus but far brighter.

“It’s different for everyone. A day for the impatient assholes, a few weeks or months normally. But Dad needs his sons to be strong, so it takes longer.”

“ _How_ _long?_ ” He had never sounded like that before, like glass shards and wire. It was a commanding, demanding voice, not the honey-dipped tones that he had sought all his life, trying to be quiet and polite. This was a voice that could scream and growl.

Red, the powerful and strange fae who had captured him, actually looked chastened. “A few decades,” he answered. “Couldn’t halfass it.”

A few decades away from home? He could imagine it. Unfamiliar shops where his favorite haunts had been; his friends now aged, married or not, raising children or not; a new family living in his home, or perhaps his home renovated until it was a stranger. His Papa, withered from grief if it hadn’t killed him.

And, as Red beamed at him and tried to entice him from the bed, Papyrus did not weep, or rage, or feel anything at all.

-

“So.... I’m thinking a nightclub?” Red flipped down his furred hood and extended a magic tongue to catch a snowflake. It tasted a bit metallic, but he didn’t mind all that much. “All else fails, maybe the DJ’ll be some amazing talent and we can grab them. Should’ve called dibs on the concert instead.”

“And step on Catty’s paws? I don’t think you’d dare.” Papyrus—now _Boss_ , for how adorable and cool he was taking charge and making a name for himself—scoffed, stubbing out his cigarette on the side of the bus station shelter. He definitely looked ready for a club, in those towering heels and leather pants. His pelvis had never looked so good in the fashion of a few centuries ago, and the dances were a lot hotter. “I have a different approach in mind,” Boss said, smoke drifting out of his jaw in spirals.

Boss had never changed anyone before, not yet. Sure, playing with someone for a few nights was fine, and they had done that plenty over the last few centuries, but neither of them had taken a servant or made someone Fair. Daddy needed the best of the best for their family.

Not for lack of trying! His baby brother had turned out to be an amazing hunter, and he had a good eye for bright souls. The problem was that none of them were bright enough. But the idea of seeing Boss seduce and manipulate and transform someone—that gave him a hard-on that even his baggy shorts couldn’t conceal. No doubt he could do it, from the way he could slink through the shadows or track a target through a city drowning in other scents. And with such a pretty face and a bought drink (basically makeshift faerie food, worked every time), he could bag anyone he wanted.

Boss nodded across the street, and Red expected it to be a new location for them to prowl. Instead, he saw a pair of skeletons, bright-boned underneath the streetlamps. They didn’t look so different from the two of them, a stouter skeleton leading a willowy one, who was obviously wasted from the way he stumbled along.

“I’ve seen them before,” Boss said, watching as the taller of his prey mumbled something that made the other one snicker. “Brothers, I believe, and some of the brightest souls I’ve seen. If nothing else, they’d match us.”

The more he looked, the more he got it. There was something innocent about them. They dressed in candy-bright colors, they held hands so the drunken one wouldn’t fall behind, they didn’t wear any scars at all. He could see their souls shining brighter than the streetlamps above them, as sweet and promising as Boss used to be. Fucking _precious_. Even if they weren’t good enough to be immortal, they looked like they’d be a lot of fun.

“Which one do y’want? They’re both pretty cute, could argue either way—”

“Both.”

He felt his grin falter a bit. “Don’tcha think that’s a little ambitious? Your first real hunt and all. Not that I _mind_ ambition, it’s a good look on you, but I’d hate for you to get your hopes up and then only bag one.” If they grabbed one, the other might follow along, but it’d still be tricky to pull off.

Boss was watching them so intently, how the little one kept his companion from falling, carrying his weight effortlessly until he could get his feet under him again. Taking in all the cute mortal details like untied sneakers and starry eyelights and the way their fingers laced together. “I said I wanted both, and I’m going to have both. I’m sure Father would approve of having more skeletons, and they have the look of a pair that should never be separated.”

“Like us?” Boss snorted, but when Red snagged his fingers in his belt loops, he obligingly leaned down for a kiss, drawing blood from Red’s tongue before they finally parted. It had taken a while for Papyrus to get to where he was now, a lot of tantrums and fights, but now they were together for life, however long that could be. He still lashed out sometimes, screaming about the father he could barely remember, but Red was always there to remind him of his place in the world: right by his side, the second prince of the night sky. It had happened all the time for the first century or so, and Dad had to heal them constantly whenever Boss got it in his head to tear Red or himself limb from limb, but he was settling down more and more these days. “Sure, let’s grab ‘em both.”

Eh, why not? He liked the look of them, cheerfully wandering around like the faeries of kid books instead of the real thing. These adorable fuckers would be right at home frolicking in a forest, drinking flower nectar or whatever the fuck mortals thought the Fair Folk got up to. He wasn’t sure if they’d look good in gold, or if he could convince Dad to try silver, but he’d have centuries to figure that out.

As Boss began to shadow the duo, finding out where home was for them, Red ambled behind, hands in his pockets, and the few stars breaking through the light pollution smiled down on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I had everything 90% edited, and I really wanted to finish so... Here's the last chapter super fast. What do you guys think? 
> 
> (- o – ) zzZ


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